'/#. 


FROM   THE 


LAYS  OF  LATER  DAYS. 


COLLECTED  AND  EDITED 


J.    p 


BLELOCK  &  Co.,  No.  19   BEEKMAN   STREET. 
1866. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1SG6,  by 
T.    C.    DE    LEON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  District  of 
Maryland 


of 

WHOSE     NOBLE     SACRIFICES      AND     UNTIRING      EXERTIONS 

FOR  THE  SICK  DURING  THE  WHOLE  WAR, 

HATE  WRITTEN  THEM  IN  LETTERS  OF  LOVE, 

SISTERS       OF 


is  $nscrikbf: 


PBEFACE. 


A  BOOK  without  a  preface  is  like  a  salad  without  salt ;  but  in 
offering  the  poems  in  this  volume  to  the  public,  I  can  add  little 
to  what  they  speak  for  themselves. 

The  sole  object  of  the  collection  is  to'  make  known  a  few 
noble  poems  that  belong  rather  to  the  world  than  to  any  par 
ticular  section,  and  to  show  those  who  have  read  REBEL 

RUYMES  that 

"  There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet " 

to  do  higher  and  better  things. 

Knowing  that  the  South  was  surrounded  during  the  war  by 
a  Chinese  wall,  that  hid  many  important  points  of  her  history 
even  from  those  beyond  it,  I  was  still  surprised  at  the  utter 
ignorance  in  the  North  of  her  having  produced  any  thing  like 
a  high  order  of  poetry.  This  ignorance  extended,  too,  even  to 
those  whose  principles  or  sympathies  made  them  peer,  with 
straining  eyes,  through  every  possible  crevice  in  the  barrier. 

It  is  with  diffidence,  proportioned  to  the  difficulties  that  sur 
round  it,  that  I  have  approached  the  task.  The  garland  is  to 
be  gathered  from  a  field  extensive  and  teeming  with  a  rank 
luxuriance  of  growth,  that  it  must  often  puzzle  the  analyst  to 
separate  from  the  really  valuable. 

Little  as  is  known  of  it,  and  confined,  as  it  has  ever  been, 
to  particular  cliques,  there  is  yet  much  latent  literature  in  the 
South.  The  terrible  friction,  however,  so  long  and  so  roughly 
applied,  brought  only  the  metrical  element  to  the  surface. 


v 


In  prose  of  all  kinds  the  South  stood  still,  perhaps  retro 
graded  ;  but  she 

"Lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came  /" 

The  thousand  tragical  incidents  and  picturesque  situations 
of  a  war  like  this  offered  rare  motives  to  the  true  poet,  and 
tempting  opportunities  to  the  rhymster  of  low  degree. 

Magazines,  albums,  and  newspaper  corners  overflowed  with 
the  effusions  of  these  latter,  on  all  subjects,  and  of  all  lengths. 

But  occasionally  in  a  great  crisis  of  the  war,  or  when  a 
heavy  calamity  bore  upon  the  whole  people,  some  mightier  one 
lifted  his  voice  and  spoke  words  that  live.  These  I  have  en 
deavored  to  preserve  in  more  durable  form  than  the  pressure 
of  the  times  when  they  were  uttered  could  allow.  Some  of 
them  were  comparatively  unknown,  even  in  the  South;  partly, 
that  grave  and  absorbing  duties  of  the  hour  weighed  upon  the 
public  mind  ;  but  more,  I  imagine,  from  want  of  some  general 
medium  of  circulation. 

Many  again  found  their  way  to  the  camps,  were  at  once 
adopted  by  the  soldiers,  and  became 

"  Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words." 

But,  as  with  the  popular  poems  of  most  revolutions,  these 
were  the  "taking"  songs  of  a  lower  order  —  ephemera  that 
have  lived  out  the  day  for  which  they  were  born. 

In  this  effort  to  show  the  quality;  and  not  the  quantity,  of 
Southern  poetry,  few  even  of  the  most  popular  of  these  have 
been  introduced, 

Where  possible,  I  have  had  each  poem  carefully  corrected 
by  its  author. 

I  have  been  warned  that  in  certain  quarters  the  poems  are 
considered  rebellious  —  incendiary,  even  —  and  as  tending  to  re- 


v 


vive  a  bitterness  now  buried  and  still.  To  these  irrationals  I 
have  no  word  to  say.  I  ask  no  favor  at  their  hands,  having 
sufficient  confidence  in  my  adopted  children  to  trust  them  to 
stand  alone. 

If  poems,  born  of  revolution,  bore  no  marks  of  the  bitter 
need  that  crushed  them  from  the  hearts  of  their  authors,  they 
would  have  no  value  whatever,  intrinsic  or  historical. 

The  feelings  that  prompted  them  live  no  longer.  The^South 
put  her  cause  in  the  hands  of  the  God  of  Battles.  She  has 
made  no  murmur  since  his  decree  was  spoken. 

A  people  who  have  accepted  the  inevitable  with  the  dignified 
quiet  of  hers,  can  be  taught  no  wrong  by  the  repetition,  in 
perfect  peace,  of  words  spoken  to  them  while  yet  in  the  heat 
of  a  bitter  struggle. 

The  effect  of  the  war  has  been  to  raise  the  Southern  charac 
ter  in  the  opinion  of  the  North  ;  and  the  feeling  that  the  South 
is  a  conquered  province  —  abject  and  bound  —  is  fast  dying  out 
in  the  breadth  of  the  land.  These  poems  may  aid  in  this 
good  work  ;  but  read  at  every  fireside  in  the  South,  they  are 
to-day  as  harmless  as  the  '-'•Lays  of  Ancient  Some." 

Their  authors,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  are  now  simply 
private  citizens.  I  shall  not  invade  their  sancta  to  search  for 
the  motives  that  impelled  them.  That  they  wrote  honestly, 
none  who  read  their  words  can  doubt  ;  and  I  am  well  content 
to  leave  them  in  the  hands  of  the  public,  saying  only  : 

"  By  their  works  shall  ye  know  them.'1'' 

T.  C.  DB  L. 
BALTIMORE,  MD.,  February  15,  18G6. 


YOUR  MISSION, 

BURIAL  OP  LATANE, 

THE  GUERRILLAS,       .... 

TILE  LONE  SENTRY, 

JACKSON, 

To  THE  EXCHANGED  PRISONERS, 
THE  HERO  WITHOUT  A  NAME, 
THE  CAVALIER'S  GLEE,    . 

THE  RIVER, 

A  POEM  THAT  NEEDS  NO  DEDICATION, 
DIRGE  FOR  ASIIBY,      .... 
A  BALLAD  FOR  THE  YOUNG  SOUTH, 

ASHBY, 

THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET, 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS,        . 

THE  BAREFOOTED  BOYS,  . 

THE  TENNESSEE  EXILE'S  SONG,    .  • 

SOMEBODY'S  DARLING, 

MONODY  ON  JACKSON,  .... 

COERCION, 

THE  WAR  CHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING, 
VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  YALLEY,    . 


Anon,  .         .         . 
John  R.  Thompson,  . 
S.  Teackle  Wallis, 
James  R.  Randall,     . 
Harry  Flash,        . 
Anon,       ... 
Col.  W.  S.  Hawkins, 
Wm.  Maclcford,         . 
Paul  H.  Hayne,    . 
J.  JBarron  Hope, 


Joseph  Brennan, 
John  R.  Thompson, 
James  R.  Randall, 
Henry  Timrod,     . 
Anon,       .. 
P.  Y.  P.,      .. 
Anon,       .. 
The  Exile,  .. 
John  R.  Thompson, 
8.  Teackle  Wallis, 
Frank  TicTcnor, 


PA  as 
15 
20 
23 
27 
29 
30 
33 
38 
40 
44 
48 
51 
56 
58 
60 
63 
65 
67 
69 
71 
75 
78 


PAGE 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EIGHT,        .        .  J.  W.  Overall,      .        .     80 

ZOLLICOFFER, Harry  Flash,    .         .         83 

A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST,          .         .  John  R.  Thompson,      .     84 

You  CAN  NEVER  WIN  THEM  BACK,  .  Anon,      .        .        .         88 

BEAUREGARD'S  APPEAL,        .         .         .  Paul  H.  Hayne,    .         .     90 

THE  CAMEO  BRACELET,     .         .         .  James  R.  Randall,    .         92 

MELT  THE  BELLS,         ....  Anon,          ...     94 

CANNON  SONG,          ....  Anon,      .         .         .         96 

BATTLE  EVE, Susan  Archer  Talley,   .     98 

THE  UNRETURNING,  ....  Anon,       ...         99 

THE  LAST  OF  EARTH,          .         .        .  Col.  W.  S.  Haivkins,       .101 

THE  MOTHER'S  TRUST,     .         .         .  Mrs.  G.  A.H.  McLeod,    104 

'A  GENERAL  INVITATION,      .        , ,        »  I.  R.,  .        .        .        .  107 

THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME,     .        .        .  Anon,      .         .         .108 

MARYLAND, James  R.  Randall,        .  110 

THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET,  Frank  Key  Howard,        1 14 

LINES  AFTER  DEFEAT,  ....  Paid  H.  Hayne,   .         .116 

ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY,  .         .         .  John  R.  Thompson,        117 

THE  FANCY  SHOT,         ....  Anon,          .         .         .126 

VOLUNTEERED, Anon,      .         .         .       128 

JOHN  PELIIAM, James  R.  Randall,        .  131 

OBSEQUIES  OF  STUART,     .         .         .  John  R.  Thompson,  .       133 

IS   THERE   ANY   NEWS   OF   THE   WAR?  .  A non,              .            .            .137 

A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE,  S.  Teackle  Wallis,     .       139 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER,    .         .         .  Hoina,         .        .        .  143 


Soutl)  Songs. 


SOUTH    SONGS. 


(I.) 


FOLD  away  all  your  bright-tinted  dresses, 

Turn  the  key  on  your  jewels  to-day, 
And  the  wealth  of  your  tendril-like  tresses 

Braid  back,  in  a  serious  way : 
No  more  delicate  gloves — no  more  laces, 

No  more  trifling  in  boudoir  or  bower; 
But  come — with  your  souls  in  your  faces — 

To  meet  the  stern  needs  of  the  hour ! 

Look  around!     By  the  torch-light  unsteady, 
The  dead  and  the  dying  seem  one. 

What !  paling  and  trembling  already, 
Before  your  dear  mission's  begun? 

These  wounds  are  more  precious  than  ghastly; 
Time  presses  her  lips  to  each  scar, 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


16  ¥out|  Mission. 


As  she  chaunts  of  a  glory  which  vastly 
Transcends  all  the  horrors  of  war. 

Pause  here  by  this  bedside — how  mellow 

The  light  showers  down  on  that  brow ! 
Such  a  brave,  brawny  visage !     Poor  fellow ! 

Some  homestead  is  missing  him  now : 
Some  wife  shades  her  eyes  in  the  clearing, 

Some  mother  sits  moaning,  distressed, 
While  the  loved  one  lies  faint,  but  unfearing, 

With  the  enemy's  ball  in  his  breast. 

Here's  another ;  a  lad — a  mere  stripling — 

Picked  up  on  the  field,  almost  dead, 
With  the  blood  through  his  sunny  hair  rippling 

From  a  horrible  gash  in  the  head. 
They  say  he  was  first  in  the  action, 

Gay-hearted,  quick-handed,  and  witty ; 
He  fought,  till  he  fell  with  exhaustion, 

At  the  gates  of  our  fair  Southern  city. 

Fought  and  fell  'neath  the  guns  of  that  city, 
With  a  spirit  transcending  his  years. 

Lift  him  up,  in  your  large-hearted  pity, 
And  wet  his  pale  lips  with  your  tears. 


ission,  17 


Touch  him  gently — most  sacred  the  duty 
Of  dressing  that  poor  shattered  hand ! 

God  spare  him  to  rise  in  his  beauty, 
And  battle  once  more  for  his  land! 

Who  groaned  ?     What  a  passionate  murmur — 

"In  TJiy  mercy,   0  God!  let  me  die!" 
Ha!  surgeon,  your  hand  must  be  firmer; 

That  grapeshot  has  shattered  his  thigh.. 
Fling  the  light  on  those  poor  furrowed  features ; 

Gray-haired  and  unknown,  bless  the  brother  ! 
O  God  !  that  one  of  Thy  creatures 

Should  e'er  work  such  woe  on  another ! 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  your  kerchief; 

Let  the  stained,  tattered  collar  go  wide. 
See  !  he  stretches  out  blindly  to  search  if 

The  surgeon  still  stands  at  his  side. 
"  My  sorts  over  yonder !  he's  wounded— 

Oh!  this  ball  that's  broken  my  thigh!" 
And  again  he  burst  out,  all  a-tremble, 

"In  Thy  mercy,  0  God!  let  me  die!" 

Pass  on !     It  is  useless  to  linger 

While  others  are  claiming  your  care; 


18 


There's  need  of  your  delicate  finger, 
For  your  womanly  sympathy,  there. 

There  are  sick  ones,  athirst  for  caressing  — 
There  are  dying  ones,  raving  of  home  — 

There  are  wounds  to  be  bound  with  a  blessing  — 
And  shrouds  to  make  ready  for  some. 

They  have  gathered  about  you  the  harvest 

Of  death,  in  its  ghastliest  view; 
The  nearest,  as  well  as  the  farthest, 

Is  here  with  the  traitor  and  true  ! 
And  crowned  with  your  beautiful  patience, 

Made  sunny,  with  love  at  the  heart, 
You  must  balsam  the  wounds  of  a  nation, 

Nor  falter,  nor  shrink  from  your  part  ! 

Up  and  down,  through  the  wards,  where  the  fever 

Stalks  noisome,  and  gaunt,  and  impure, 
You  must  go,  with  your  steadfast  endeavor, 

To  comfort,  to  counsel,  to  cure  ! 
I  grant  that  the  task's  superhuman, 

But  strength  will  be  given  to  you 
To  do  for  these  dear  ones  what  woman 

Alone  in  her  pity  can  do. 


Mission.  19 


And  the  lips  of  the  mothers  will  bless  you 

As  angels,  sweet- visaged  and  pale ! 
And  the  little  ones  run  to  caress  you, 

While  the  wives  and  sisters  cry  "Hail!" 
But  e'en  if  you  drop  down  unheeded, 

What  matter?     God's  ways  are  the  best! 
You  have  poured  out  your  life  where  'twas  needed, 

And  He  will  take  care  of  the  rest ! 


20  <|he  Burial  of  &ata»e. 


0f 

THE  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day ; 

And,  through  the  hosts  that  compassed  us  around, 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 
Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain — 
Single  of  all  his  men,  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood — 

Hope's  halo,  like  a  helmet,  round  his  hair — 
The  next  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 

Prostrate  in  death ;  and  yet,  in  death  how  fair  ! 
Even  thus   he   passed  through  the  red   gates 

of  strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms,  to  an  immor 
tal  life. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 

And  gave  it  unto  strangers'  hands,  that  closed 
The  calm  blue  eyes,  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  -slender  limbs  composed : 

Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who,  with  Mary's  love, 
Sat  by  the   open  tomb,  and  weeping,  looked 
above. 


tphe  Burial  of  £>atane.  21 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier — 

Pale  roses,  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 
Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere, 

That    blossomed    with    good    actions  —  brief,   but 

whole ; 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 
Approached,  with    reverent    feet,    the    hero's 
lowly  grave. 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rite 

Above  the  "rebel" — thus  declared  the  foe 
That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight; 
But  woman's  voice,  with  accents  soft  and  low, 
Trembling  with  pity — touched  with  pathos — 

read 
Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

" '  Tis  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power  /" 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
While  the  low  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 
Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer. 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and 
his  God! 


22  fghe  Bwjial  of 


Let  us  not  weep  for  him,  whose  deeds  endure  ! 

So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful!     He  died 
As  he  had  wished  to  die  ;  the  past  is  sure  ; 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 

Those  who  still  linger  by  the  stormy  shore, 
Change  can   not  harm  him  now,  nor  fortune 
touch  him  more. 

And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Victrix  et   Vidua  —  the  conflict  done  — 
Shall  raise  her  mailed  hand  to  wipe  the  tear 
That  starts,  as  she  recalls  each  martyred  son, 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway 
Than  thine,  our  early  lost,  lamented  Lataiie  I 


uerLiji)la$.  23 


AWAKE  and  to  horse !  my  brothers, 
For  the  dawn  is  glimmering  gray, 

And  hark !  in  the  crackling  brushwood 
There  are  feet  that  tread  this  way  ! 

"Who  cometh?"  "A  friend!"  "What  tidings?" 
"O  God!  I  sicken  to  tell; 
For  the  earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 
And  its  sights  are  sights  of  hell ! 

"  There's  rapine,  and  fire,  and  slaughter, 

From  the  mountain  down  to  the  shore  ; 
There's  blood  on  the  trampled  harvest, 
And  blood  on  the  homestead  floor ! 

"  From  the  far  off  conquered  cities 

Comes  the  voice  of  a  stifled  wail, 
And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  houseless 
Ring  out,  like  a  dirge,  on  the  gale ! 

"  I've  seen,  from  the  smoking  village 
Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly ! 


24  Cphe 


I've  seen,  where*  the  little  children 
Sank  down  in  the  furrows,  to  die ! 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river 

I  stood,  as  the  moonlight  shone, 
And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 
As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on ! 

11  Where  my  home  was  glad,  are  ashes, 

And  horror  and  shame  had  been  there; 
For  I  found,  on  the  fallen  lintel, 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair ! 

"  They  are  turning  the  slave  upon  us, 

And  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 
Have  uncovered  the  fires  of  the  savage, 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart ! 

"The  ties  to  our  hearths  that  bound  him, 

They  have  rent,  with  curses,  away, 
And  maddened  him,  with  their  madness, 
To  be  almost  as  brutal  as  they. 

"With  halter,  and  torch,  and  Bible, 

And  hymns,  to  the  sound  of  the  drum, 


25 


They  preach  the  gospel  of  murder, 
And  pray  for  lust's  kingdom  to  come ! 

"  To  saddle !  to  saddle  !  my  brothers ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  God  who  shines  there, 
Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done. 

"Wherever  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home  to  his  heart  with  your  steel; 
And  where'er  at  his  bosom  ye  can  not, 
Like  the  serpent,  go  strike  at  his  heel. 

"  Through  thicket  and  wood  go  hunt  him  ; 

Creep  up  to  his  camp-fire  side! 
And  let  ten  of  his  corpses  blacken 
Where  one  of  our  brothers  hath  died ! 

"In  his  fainting,  foot-sore  marches, 

In  his  flight  from  the  stricken  fray, 
In  the  snare  of  the  lonely  ambush, 
The  debts  that  we  owe  him,  pay ! 

"  In  God's  hand  alone  is  judgment, 

But  He  strikes  with  the  hands  of  men, 


26 


And  His  blight  would  wither  our  manhood, 
If  we  smote  not  the  smiter  aain. 


"  By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 

By  the  shrines  where  our  mothers  prayed, 
By  our  homes,  and  hopes,  and  freedom, 
Let  every  man  swear  on  his  blade — 

"That  he  will  not  sheath  nor  stay  it 

Till  from  point  to  heft  it  glow, 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  vengeance, 
In  the  blood  of  the  felon  foe !" 

They  swore ;  and  the  answering  sunlight 
Leapt  red  from  their  lifted  swords, 

And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo 
To  the  wrath  in  their  burning  words ! 

There's  weeping  in  all  New-England, 
And  by  Schuylkill's  bank  a  knell ; 

And  the  widows  there,  and  the  orphans, 
How  the  oath  was  kept  can  tell. 


(phe  &oue  $cn%.  27 


9am 


'TwAS  as  the  dying  of  the  day, 

The  darkness  grew  so  still  ; 
The  drowsy  pipe  of  evening  birds 

Was  hushed  upon  the  hill. 
Athwart  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  might  ; 
And  one  lone  sentry  paced  his  rounds 

To  watch  the  camp  that  night. 

A  grave  and  solemn  man  was  he, 

With  deep  and  sombre  brow  ; 
The  dre-amful  eyes  seemed  hoarding  up 

Some  unaccomplished  vow. 
The  wistful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plain, 

Beneath  the  starry  light  ; 
And,  with  the  murmured  name  of  God, 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

The  future  opened  unto  him 
Its  grand  and  awful  scroll  — 

Manassas  and  the  valley  march 
Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul  ; 


28 


Richmond  and  Sharp  sburgh  thundered  by, 

With  that  tremendous  fight 
That  gave  him  to  the  angel  host, 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

We  mourn  for  him,  who  died  for  us, 

With  one  resistless  moan, 
While  up  the  Valley  of  the  Lord 

He  marches  to  the  Throne  ! 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints 

Sublime,  and  pure,  and  bright  ; 
He  sleeps  —  and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

Brothers  !  the  midnight  of  the  cause 

Is  shrouded  in  our  fate  — 
The  demon  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire,  and  lust,  and  hate! 
Be  strong  —  be  valiant  —  be  assured  — 

Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Right  ! 
The  soul  of  Jackson  stalks  abroad, 

And  guards  the  camp  to-night! 


Jackson.  29 

Jfachsoir* 

'mid  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  Great  Leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town. 
When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recording  all  his  grand,  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  Nation's  Promised  Land, 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth ; 
But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South ! 

O  gracious  God !  not  gainless  is  the  loss : 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown ; 
And,  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown ! 


30  fo  the 


THE   anchors   are  weighed,  and  the   gates   of  your 

prison 
Fall  wide,  as   your  ship   gives   her  prow   to    the 

foam, 

And  a  few  hurried  hours  shall  return  you  exulting, 
Where  the  flag  you   have  fought  for  floats   over 
your  home. 

God  send  that  not  long  may  its  folds  be  uplifted 
O'er  fields   dark   and   sad   with   the   trail   of  the 

fight- 
God  give  it  the  triumph  He  always  hath  given, 
Or  sooner  or  later,  to  Valor  and  Right ! 

But  if  peace  may  not  yet  wreath  your  homes  with 

her  olive, 
And    new  victims   are    still   round  the    altar    to 

bleed, 

God  shield  you  amid  the  red  bolts  of  the  battle ! 
God  give  you  stout  hearts  for  high  thought  and 
brave  deed ! 


$o  the  Exchanged  itfyiaonetjs,  31 

No    need   we   should   bid    you  go   strike   for    your 

freedom  — 
You    have    stricken,  like    men,   for    its    blessings 

before, 
And  your  homes  and  your  loved  ones,  your  wrongs 

and  your  manhood, 

Will  nerve  you  to   fight  the  good  fight  o'er  and 
o'er  ! 

But  will  you  not  think,  as  you  wave  your  glad  ban 
ners, 

How  the  flag  of  old  Maryland,  trodden  in  shame, 
Lies  sullied  and  torn  in  the  dust  of  her  highways  — 

And  will  you  not  strike  a  fresh  blow  in  her  name  ? 

Her  mothers  have   sent  their  first-born  to  be  with 


Wherever  with  blood  there  are  fields  to  be  won  — 
Her  daughters    have   wept   for   you,   clad    you  and 

nursed  you- 

Their  vows  and*  their  hopes  and  their  smiles  are 
your  own. 

Let  her  cause  be    your   cause,   and  whenever  the 

war-cry 
Bids  you  rush  to  the  field,  oh  !  remember  her  too  — 


32  (f>o  the 

And  when  freedom  and  peace  shall  be  blended  in 

glory, 
Oh !  count  it  your  shame  if  she  be  not  with  you. 

And  if  in  the  hour  when  pride,  honor,  and  duty, 
Shall  stir  every  throb  in  the  hearts  of  brave  men, 

The  wrongs  of  the  helpless  can  quicken  such  pulses, 
Let  the  captives  at  Warren  give  flame  to  them 
then. 


without  a  "tone.  33 


cr0 


I  LOVED,  when  a  child,  to  seek  the  page 

Where  war's  proud  tales  are  grandly  told, 
And  to  read  of  the  might  of  that  former  age, 

In  the  brave,  good  days  of  old  ; 
When  men  for  Virtue  and  Honor  fought 

In  serried  ranks,  'neath  their  banners  bright, 
By  the  fairy  hands  of  beauty  wrought, 

And  broidered  with  "  God  and  Right" 

'Twas  there  I  read  of  Sir  Launcelot  true, 

Whose  deeds  have  been  sung  in  a  nobler  strain; 
And  of  Roderic,  the  Bold,  who  his  falchion  drew, 

In  the  cause  of  his  native  Spain  ; 
And,  in  thought,  I  beheld  gay  Sidney  ride  — 

His  white  plume  dotting  the  field's  expanse; 
And  Bayard,  who  came  like  the  swirl  of  the  tide, 

As  he  struck  for  the  lilies  of  France. 

On  the  crags  of  Scotland  then  I  saw, 
With  his  hair  of  golden  hue,  Montrose  ; 

And  the  swarthy  Douglas,  whose  name  was  law 
In  the  homes  of  his  English  foes. 


34  ^he  $et[o  without  a  "Rame, 


There  was  Winkelried,  in  the  Swiss-land  famed ; 

And  the  mountaineers'  boast — devoted  Tell — 
Before  whose  patriot  shaft,  well-aimed, 

His  country's  tyrant  fell. 

'JSTeath  Erin's  flag,  with  its  glad  sunburst, 

Was  Emmett,  the  first  in  that  martyr  van, 
Whose  blood  makes  sacred  the  gibbet  accursed, 

Where  they  died  for  the  rights  of  man. 
There  was  Light-Horse  Harry,  the  first  in  the  fray, 

There  was  Marion  leading  his  cavaliers — 
And  Washington,  too,  whose  grave  to-day, 

Is  the  shrine  of  patriot  tears. 

These  splendid  forms  were  part  of  the  throng 

That  delighted  me,  moving  in  pageant  grand, 
Through  the  wastes  of  time    and  the  fields  of  song, 

From  the  legends  of  every  land. 
But  little  I  hoped  myself  to  see 

A  spirit  akin  to  these  stately  men ; 
Or  dreamed  that   great  hearts,  like  theirs,  could  be 

In  a  prison's  crowded  pen. 

Yet,  I've  seen  in  the  wards  of  the  hospital  there, 
A  hero,  I  fancy,  as  peerless  of  soul ; 


without  a  l^awe.  35 


A  pale-faced  boy,  whose  home  is  fair, 
Where  the  waters  of  Cumberland  roll. 

On  his  narrow  cot,  in  that  narrow  room, 
"Where  the  music  he  hears  is  the   sigh   and   the 
groan, 

He  lies  through  the  day's  long  pain  and  gloom, 
But  he  never  makes  a  moan ! 

They  hewed  him  down  with  their  blades  of  steel, 

Where  the  troopers  charged  from  the  camp  of  the 

foe; 
But  he  was  not  killed — although  I  feel, 

It  would  have  been  better  so ; 
For  my  heart  within  me  is  very  sad, 

As  I  sit  and  hold  his  wasted  hand, 
And  hear  him  tell  of  the  days  that  were  glad, 

In  our  own  dear,  sunny  land. 

There  are  hours,  again,  in  his  fever's  heat, 

When  his  restless  fancies  fly  to  his  home : 
And  he  talks  of  the  scythe  in  the  falling  wheat, 

And  the  reapers  that  go  and  come  ; 
Of  his  boyish  mates,  in  their  frolicsome  glee, 

In  the  cedarn  glades  and  the  woodlawns  dim; 
And  how  he  carved  there  on  many  a  tree, 

A  name  that  was  dear  to  him ; 


36  fphe  $et|o  without  a 


Of  the  sweet  wild  roses  that  scatter  the  light, 

Through  the  open  door  and  the  window-pane  ; 
And  October's  haze,  on  the  far  off  height — 

And  the  quiet  country  lane ; 
Of  the  rivulet's  plash,  and  the  song  of  birds, 

And  the  corn  rows,  standing  like  men  with  spears  ; 
Of  his  mother's  tones,  and  her  loving  words — 

And  his  cheeks  are  wet  with  tears. . 

And  I  seem  to  see  her,  as  autumn  leaves 

Like  shadows  fall  in  the  lonely  glen, 
And  the  swallows  come  home  to  those  silent  eaves, 

Where  he  shall  not  come  again. 
And  then  I  rejoice  that  she  can  not  see, 

How  the  blight  has  stained  her  fairest  bloom; 
I  am  glad  her  footstep  will  never  be 

Beside  his  northern  tomb. 

v 

And  I  think  of  another,  who  watches  too, 

"When  the  early  stars  are  bright  on  the  hill, 
ISTor  dreams  that  his  heart — so  confiding  and  true — 

Will  soon  be  forever  still. 
Ah!  many,  in  vain,  to  their  hopes  shall  cling, 

Through  the  dreary  morn  and  the  mournful  eve; 
And  memory  alone  shall  its  solace  bring, 

To  a  thousand  hearts  that  grieve. 


?f>he  $et|o  without  a  "Rame,  37 


My  comrade  will  last  but  a  little  while ; 

For  I  see  on  every  succeeding  day, 
A  fainter  flush — but  a  sweeter  smile — • 

Over  his  features  play. 
And  he  knows  that  until  he  is  under  the  sod, 

These  walls,  little  better,  shall  shut  him  in ; 
But  his  soul  puts  trust  in  the  Lamb  of  God, 

That  taketh  away  all  sin ! 

And  somehow  I  think,  when  our  lives  are  done, 

That  this  humble  hero — without  a  name — 
Will  be  greater  up  there,  than  many  a  one 

Of  the  high-born,  men  of  fame. 
And   I  know  I  would  rather  wear  to-day, 

The  crown  that  is  his,  with  its  fadeless  bloom, 
Than  Roderic's  helm,  so  golden  and  gay, 

Or  Sidney's  snow-Avhite  plume! 

O  prisoner  boy!  that  I  were  as  near, 

As  you  are  now  to  that  "shining  shore," 
Where  the  waters  of  life  and  of  love  are  clear, 

And  weeping  shall  come  no  more. 
It  can  not  be  now;  yet,  in  God's  own  time, 

When  He  calls  his  weary  ones  home  to  rest, 
May  I  join  with  you  in  the  angel  chime — 

Like  you,  be  a  welcome  guest ! 


38  ^ho  (gavalieifa  flee. 


SPUR  on!  spur  on!  we  love  the  bounding 

Of  barbs,  that  bear  us  to  the  fray  : 
"  TJie  charge "  our  bugles  now  are  sounding 
And  our  bold  Stuart  leads  the  way ! 
The  path  to  honor  lies  before  us ; 

Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ! 
At  home,  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 
And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last ! 

Spur  on !  spur  on !  we  love  the  rushing 

Of  steeds  that  spurn  the  turf  they  tread ; 
We'll  through  the  northern  ranks  go  crushing, 
With  our  proud  banner  overhead ! 

The  path  to  honor  lies  before  us, 
Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ! 
At  home,  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 
And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last! 

Spur  on !  spur  on !  we  love  the  flashing 

Of  blades  that  battle  for  the  free  ! 
'Tis  for  our  sunny  south  they're  clashing — 

For  household  gods  and  liberty ! 


^he  (favalietf*  <Pte$»  39 

The  path  to  honor  lies  before  us  ; 

Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ! 
At  home,  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 

And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last! 


40  <f)he  &lvet(* 


THEY  slept  on  the  field  that  their  valor  had  won ! 
But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that   a  great  deed  remained  to  be 

done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  river. 

They  nose  with   the   sun,   caught  new  life  from  his 

light— 

Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy   of  their 

might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  River. 

«. 
On !   on !   like  the  rushing   of  storms   through  the 

hills— 

On !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills — 
And   the    one  heart   of   thousands    grows   buoyant 

and  thrills, 
At  the  thought  of  the  River. 


41 


Ou !  tlie  sheen  of  their  swords !  the  fierce  gleam  of 

their  eyes ! 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  River. 

But  their  banners,   shot-scarred,    and  all   darkened 

with  gore — 

On  a  strong  wind  of  morn  streaming  wildly  before— 
Like  the  wings  of  Death-angels,  swept   fast  to   the 

shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  River. 

As  they  march — from  the  hill-side,  the   hamlet,  the 

stream — 
Gaunt  throngs,   whom    the  foeman  had  manacled, 

teem, 

Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  o'er  the  River. 

They  behold    the    broad    banners,   blood-darkened, 

yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal,  as  of  victory,  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  River. 


42 


And  that   cry,   with   a  thousand   strange   echoings 

spread, 

Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the 

dead  — 
Ay  !  press  on  to  the  River. 

On  !   on  !  like   the   rushing   of   storms   through  the 

hills— 

On  !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills, 
And    the   one   heart   of    thousands   grows    buoyant 

and  thrills 
As  they  pause  by  the  River. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland  —  haggard  and  worn  — 
At  that  sight,  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
As  she  turned  on  her  foemen,  full  statured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  River. 

And    Potomac  flowed  calm,   scarcely  heaving    her 

breast, 
With   her   low-lying  billows   kissed  warm    by   the 

west  ; 

For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  far  rolling  River. 


ff>he  Biveq.  43 


Passed !    passed  !    the   glad  thousands    march   safe 

through  the  tide — 
(Hark,   despots !   and  hear  the  wild  knell   of  your 

pride 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild — pealing  up  from  the 

side 
Of  the  calm  flowing  River.) 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty,  the   tyrant  shall 

fall! 

Vain !  vain !  to  his  God  swells  the  desolate  call ! 
For    his   grave   has  been  hollowed   and  woven  his 

pall, 
As  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 


44  $  ijfoem  that  nee4$  no  $)e4kmtion. 


%t  wttrs 


WHAT  !   ye  hold  yourselves   as  freemen  ? 

Tyrants   love  just   such   as   ye! 
Go  !   abate   your  lofty   manner  ! 
Write  upon  the   State's   old  banner, 
"A  furore  JVbrmanorum, 
Libera  nos,    0  Domine  !  " 

Sink  before   the  Federal   altar, 

Each   one,   low   on  bended   knee  ; 
Pray,   with  lips   that  sob   and  falter, 
This   prayer  from   a   coward's   Psalter: 
U^L  furore  JVbrmanorum, 
Liber  a  nos,    0  Domine  !  " 

But  ye  hold  that  quick  repentance 

In  the  Northern   mind  will   be; 
This  repentance   comes  no  sooner 
Than   the   robber's   did,   at  Luna. 
"A  furore  JSTormanorum^ 
Liber  a  nos,    0  Domine  !  " 


3?oem  that  needs  no  dedication.  45 


He   repented  him ;   the   Bishop 
Gave   him   absolution  free — 

Poured  upon  him   sacred   chrism 

In  the   pomp   of  his   baptism. 

"A  furore  JVbrmanorum, 
Libera  nos,    0  Domine!" 

He   repented ;   then  he   sickened 
Was   he   pining  for  the   sea  ? 
In  extremis  he   was   shriven. 
The  viaticum  was   given : 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !  " 

Then   the   old   cathedral's  choir 

Took  the  plaintive   minor  key, 
With  the  host  upraised  before   him, 
Down  the   marble   aisle  they  bore   him; 
"  A  furore  Normanorum^ 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !  " 

While  the   Bishop   and  the  Abbot, 
All  the   monks   of  high   degree — 
Chanting  praise  to   the   Madonna, 
Came   to   do   him   Christian  honor. 
"  A  furore  Normanorum^ 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !  " 


46  $  ilfoem  that  needs  no  dedication. 

Now  the  Miserere's   cadence 

Takes   the   voices   of  the   sea; 
As   the  music-billows   quiver 
See   the   dead  freebooter   shiver ! 
"A  furore  N~ormanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  J)omine  !  " 

Is  it  that   those  intonations 

Thrill  him  thus,   from   head  to   knee  ? 
Lo  !    his   cerements  burst   asunder  ! 
'Tis   a   sight   of  fear   and   wonder ! 
"A.  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera,  nos,    O  Dominel" 

Fierce  he   stands  before   the   Bishop — 
Dark  as   shape   of  Destinie ! 

Hark!    a   shriek   ascends   appalling! 

Down   the   prelate   goes — dead — falling  ! 
"A.  furore  Nbrmanorum, 
Libera  nos,    O  JDotnine  ! " 

HASTING  lives !   he  was   but   feigning ! 

What!   Repentant?   Never   he! 
Down  he   smites  the   priests   and  friars, 
And   the  city  lights   with  fires. 

"^L  furore  IVbrmanorum, 
Libera  nos,    0  Domine!" 


&  3?oem  that  needs  no  dedication.  47 

Ah !   the   children   and   the  maidens, 
'Tis   in  vain   they   strive  to   flee ! 

Where  the  white-haired  priests  lie  bleeding 

Is  no  place  for  tearful  pleading, 
"A.  furore  JVormanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!" 

Louder   swells   the   frightful   tumult — - 

Pallid   death   holds   revelrie ! 
Dies   the  organ's  mighty   clamor 
By  the  Norseman's   iron   hammer ! 
"A  furore.  N~ormanorum, 
Libera  nos,    O  Domine!" 

So   they   thought  that  he'd   repented ! 

Had  they   nailed  him  to   a  tree, 
He  had  not   deserved   their  pity, 

And   they had  not  lost  their   city. 

"A  furore  Nor  manor  urn, 
Libera  nos,    0  Dominef" 

For  the   moral  in  this   story, 

Which  is   plain   as   truth   can  be : 
If  we   trust  the   North's   relenting, 
We   will   shriek,   too   late  repenting, 
11 A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,    O  Dominef" 


48 


for 


HEARD  ye  that  thrilling  word  — 

Accent  of  dread  ! 
Fall  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Bowing  each  head? 
Over  the  battle  dun  — 
Over  each  booming  gun  — 

AsJiby,  our  bravest  one! 
Ashby  is  dead! 

Saw  ye  the  veterans  — 

Hearts  that  had  known 
Never  a  quail  of  fear, 

Never  a  groan  — 
Sob  'mid  the  fight  they  win, 
Tears  their  stern  eyes  within? 
AsTiby,  our  paladin  ! 
Ashby  is  dead! 

Dash,  dash  the  tear  away! 

Crush  down  the  pain  ! 
Dulce  et  decus  be 

Fittest  refrain. 


49 


Why  should  the  dreary  pall 
Round  him  be  flung  at  all? 
Did  not  our  hero  fall, 

Gallantly  slain? 

Catch  the  last  words  of  cheer 

Dropped  from  his  tongue  ! 
Over  the  volley's  din 
Let  them  be  rung  ! 
"Follow  me!     Follow  me!" 
Soldier!  oh!  could  there  be 
Paean,  or  dirge  for  thee 
Loftier  sung? 

Bold  as  the  Lion's  Heart  — 

Dauntless  and  brave  ; 
Knightly  as  knightliest 

Bayard  could  crave  ; 
Sweet  —  with  all  Sidney's  grace— 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face  — 
Who,  who  shall  fill  the  space, 
Void  by  his  grave  ? 

'Tis  not  one  broken  heart, 
Wild  with  dismay  — 


50 


Crazed  in  her  agony — 
"Weeps  o'er  his  clay ! 
Ah !  from  a  thousand  eyes 
Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise — 
Widowed  VIRGINIA  lies 
Stricken  to-day ! 

Yet,  charge  as  gallantly, 

Ye  whom  he  led! 
Jackson,  the  victor,  still 

Stands  at  your  head ! 
Heroes !  be  battle  done, 
Bravelier  every  one, 
Nerved  by  the  thought  alone— 
AsJiby  is  dead! 


the  ¥oung  $outh,  51 


lk!tr  for  ifre 


of  the  South!     Our  foes  are  up 

In  fierce  and  grim  array  ; 
Their  sable  banner  laps  the  air  — 

An  insult  to  the  day  ! 
The  saints  of  Cromwell  rise  again, 

In  sanctimonious  hordes, 
Hiding  behind  the  garb  of  peace 

A  million  ruthless  swords. 
From  North,  and  East,  and  West,  they  seek 

The  same  disastrous  goal, 
With  CHRIST  upon  the  lying  lip, 

And  Satan  in  the  soul! 
Mocking,  with  ancient  shibboleth, 

All  wise  and  just  restraints  : 
"To  saints  of  Heaven  was  empire  given, 

And  WE,  alone,  are  saints  /" 

A  preacher  to  the  pulpit  comes  • 

And  calls  upon  the  crowd, 
For  Southern  creeds  and  Southern  hopes 

To  weave  a  bloody  shroud. 


52  &  Ballad  foq  the  ¥oung  $outh, 


Beside  the  prayer-book,  on  his  desk, 

The  bullet-mould  is  seen; 
And  near  the  Bible's  golden  clasp, 

The  dagger's  stately  sheen; 
The  simple  tale  of  Bethlehem 

"No  more  is  fondly  told, 
For  every  priestly  surplice  drags 

Too  heavily  with  gold ; 
The  blessed  Cross  of  Calvary 

Becomes  a  sign  of  Baal, 
Like  that  which  played  when  chieftains  raised 

The  clansmen  of  the  Gael ! 

Hark  to  the  howling  demagogues — 

A  fierce  and  ravenous  pack — 
With  nostrils  prone,  and  bark,  and  bay, 

That  close  upon  our  track : 
"  Down  with  the  laws  our  fathers  made ! 

They  bind  our  hearts  no  more  ; 
Down  with  the  stately  edifice, 

Cemented  with  their  gore  ! 
*  Forget  the  legends  of  our  race — 

Efface  each  wise  decree — 
Americans  must  kneel  as  slaves, 

Till  Africans  are  free! 


$  Ballad  fotj  the  "^oung  $outh.  53 

Out  on  the  mere  Caucasian  blood 

Of  Teuton,  Celt,  or  Gaul ! 
The  stream  that  springs  from  Niger's  source 

Must  triumph  over  all !" 

So  speaks  a  solemn  senator 

Within  those  halls  to-day, 
That  echoed  erst,  the  thunder-burst 

Of  WEBSTER  and  of  CLAY  ! 
Look  North,  look  East,  look  West — the  scene 

Is  blackening  all  around ; 
The  negro  cordon,  year  by  year, 

Is  fast  and  faster  bound ; 
The  black  line  crossed — the  sable  flag 

Surrounded  by  a  host — 
Our  out-post  forced,  our  sentinels 

Asleep  upon  their  posts; 
Our  brethren's  life-blood  flowing  free, 

To  stain  the  Kansas  soil — 
And  shed  in  vain,  while  pious  thieves 

Are  fattening  on  our  toil! 
Look  North — look  West — the  ominous  sky 

Is  starless,  moonless,  black, 
And  from  the  East  comes  hurrying  up 

A  sweeping  thunder-rack ! 


54  &  Ballad  foij  the  ¥oung  $outh. 


Men  of  the  South!     Ye  have  no  kin 

With  fanatics,  or  fools; 
Ye  are  not  bound  by  breed,  or  birth, 

To  Massachusetts  rules ! 
A  hundred  nations  gave  their  blood 

To  feed  these  healthful  springs, 
Which  bear  the  seed  of  Jacques  JBon/tomme, 

With  those  of  Bourbon  kings. 
The  Danish  pluck  and  sailor  craft — 

The  Huguenotic  will — 
The  Norman  grace  and  chivalry — 

The  German  steady  skill — 
The  fiery  Celt's  impassioned  thought 

Inspire  the  Southron's  heart, 
Which  has  no  room  for  bigot-gloom, 

Or  pious  plunder's  art ! 

Sons  of  the  brave  !     The  time  has  come 

To  bow  the  haughty  crest, 
Or  stand  alone,  despite  the  threats 

Of  North,  or  East,  or  West ! 
The  hour  has  come  for  manly  deeds 

And  not  for  puling  words ; 
The  place  is  passed  for  platform  prate — 

It  is  the  time  for  swords ! 


Ballad  font  the  ¥oung  $outh. 


Now,  by  the  fame  of  JOHN  CALHOUN, 

To  honest  truth  be  true ! 
And  by  old  JACKSON'S  iron  will, 

Now  do  what  ye  can  do! 
By  all  ye  love — by  all  ye  hope — 

Be  resolute  and  proud ; 
And  make  your  flag  a  symbol  high 

Of  triumph,  or  a  shroud ! 

Men  of  the  South !     Look  up — behold 

The  deep  and  sullen  gloom, 
That  darkles  o'er  our  sunny  land 

With  thunder  in  its  womb! 
Are  ye  so  blind  ye  can  not  see 

The  omens  in  the  sky? 
Are  ye  so  deaf  ye  can  not  hear 

The  tramp  of  foemen  nigh  ? 
Are  ye  so  dull  ye  will  endure 

The  whips  and  scorn  of  men, 
Who  wear  the  heart  of  TITUS  GATES 

Beneath  the  face  of  PENN  ? 
Never,  I  ween!  and  foot  to  foot, 

Ye  now  will  gladly  stand 
For  land  and  life,  for  child  and  wife, 

With  naked  steel  in  hand  ! 


56 


To   the   brave   all  homage   render ! 

Weep,   ye   skies   of  June  ! 
With  a   radiance   pure   and  tender, 

Shine,   oh,   saddened  moon  ! 
"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory  !  " — 
Hero   fit  for  song   and   story — 

Lies   our   bold  dragoon  ! 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,   knightlier   foe, 
Never  fought   'gainst  Moor  or  Paynim — 

Rode   at  Templestowe  : 
With   a   mien   how  high   and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the   hordes  that  would   destroy   us 

Went  he   forth,  we   know. 

Never  more,   alas  !   shall   sabre 

Gleam  around  his   crest — 
Fought  his   fight,   fulfilled   his   labor, 

Stilled  his   manly  breast — 
All   unheard   sweet  nature's   cadence, 
Trump   of  fame  and   voice   of  maidens, 

Now   he  takes   his   rest. 


Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  Wrap  his  clay! 
Linger   lovingly   around   him, 

Light  of  dying   day  ! 
Softly  fall,   ye   summer   showers — 
Birds  and  bees,  among  the  flowers 

Make   the   gloom   seem   gay ! 

Then,   throughout  the   coming   ages, 

When  his   sword  is   rust, 
And  his   deeds  in  classic  pages — 

Mindful   of  her   trust — 
Shall   VIRGINIA,   bending   lowly, 
Still   a   ceaseless  vigil  holy 

Keep,   above  his   dust! 


58  ff>hei|e'$  £>ife  in  the  o)4  £>an4  yet, 


m'a  fife  m  %  ©Ib  £ antr 


BY  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash, 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash, 
And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums. 
We  hear  it !  we  heed  it,  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget— 
There's   faith   in  the    streams,   there's   hope   in   the 

hills— 
"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead ; 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged,  we  are  scarred ; 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph-tread 

Of  the  peerless  Beauregard  ! 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met ; 
There's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword — 
"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !" 

Bigots  !  ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind, 
With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain : 


&ife  in  the  old  Land  \jet.  59 


The  Spirit  of  Freedom  sings  in  the  wind, 
O'er  Merryman,  Thomas,  and  Kane  ! 

And  we,  though  we  smite  not,  are  not  thralls  — 
We  are  piling  a  gory  debt  ; 

E'en  down  by  McHenry's  dungeon  walls, 
"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  !  " 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 
And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 

While  the  nimble  poignard  dares  the  day 
In  their  dear,  defiant  hands  ; 

They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows, 
Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set  ; 

There's  faith  in  their  unrelenting  woes  — 
"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 

There's  life  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins; 

'Tis  vocal,  without  noise  ; 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas'  solemn  plains 

In  the  blood  of  the  Maryland  boys  ! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat  — 
By  the   death   of  the   brave  !  —  by  the   God   in  the 

skies  !  — 
"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 


60  $   <r     to 


to 


Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !   dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye,  that  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade  ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade! 

The   despot  roves  your  fairest  lands, 

And  till  he  flies,  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands  — 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain  ; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come  with  the  weapons  at  your  call  — 

"With  musket,  pike,  or  knife  ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all  . 

Who   lightest  holds  his  life. 


to  $qro$.  Cl 


The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab   him   with   a  thorn  ! 

Does   any  falter?    let   him   turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh !  could  you  like  your  women  feel 

And   in   their    spirit   march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines   of  steel 

Beneath   the  victor's   arch ! 

What   hope,    O    God!    would   not  grow   warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  lily  calmly  braves   the  storm — 

And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear? 
No!  rather  let  its  branches   court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain ; 
And  from  the  lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain. 

Ho !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side 
Ho !   dwellers  in  the  vales ! 


G2  $  <$r     to 


Ho  !  ye,  that  by  the  roaring  tide, 
Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 

Come!  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 
From  forest,  hill,  and  lake! 

We  battle  for  our  country's  right 
And  for  the  lily's  sake  ! 


Barefooted  Botja,  63 


BY  the   sword  of  St.  Michael 

The   old  dragon   through ! 
By   David  his   sling, 

And  the   giant   he   slew ! 
Let   us   write   us    a   rhyme, 

As   a   record  to   tell, 
How   the   South   on   a   time 

Stormed  the   ramparts  of  hell 

With   her  barefooted   boys ! 

Had  the   South  in  her  border 

A  hero   to   spare, 
Or   a  heart   at   her   altar, 

Lo  !  its  life's  blood  was  there ! 
And  the  black  battle-grime 

Might   never   disguise 
The   smile   of  the    South, 

On  the  lips   and  the   eyes 

Of  her  barefooted   boys! 

There's   a   grandeur  in  fight, 
And   a   terror    the   while, 


64  £phe  Barefooted 


But  none   like   the   light 

Of  that   terrible   smile  — 
The   smile   of   the   South, 

When   the   storm-cloud   unrolls 
The   lightning  that   loosens 

The   wrath  in   the   souls 

Of  her  barefooted   boys  ! 

It   withered  the   foe 

Like   the   red  light   that  runs 
Through  the   dead  forest   leaves, 

And  he  fled  from  his   guns  ! 
Grew  the   smile   to   a  laugh, 

Rose  the  laugh  to  a   yell, 
As    the    iron-clad    hoofs 

Clattered   back   into  hell 

From   our  barefooted   boys. 


65 


I  HEAR  the  rushing  of  her  streams, 
The  murmuring  of  her  trees, 

The  exile's  anguish  swells  my  heart 
And  melts  with  each  soft  breeze. 

'Midst  other  scenes  her  corn-hills  wave, 
Her  mountains  pierce  the  sky — 

Where,  where  are  they  who  swore  to  save- 
To  conquer,  or  to  die  ? 

They  come,  from  every  blue  hill-side, 

From  every  lovely  dale, 
The  heart,  the  soul,  the  very  pride 

Of  mountain,  hill,  and  vale. 
Stalwart,  they  court  like  Anak's  sons, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  ; 
Drink  in  the  earthquake  of  the  guns, 

To  them  the  breath  of  life. 

Spare  not  the  invading  mongrel  hordes, 

But  slay  them  as  they  stand  ! 
Strike !  Tennessee  has  living  swords, 

The  best  in  all  the  land ! 


66  (|>he  fftenneasee  Exile's 


Strew  o'er  her  plains  their  hostile  lines, 
Drench  her  fair  fields  with  blood, 

Fill  their  long  ranks  with  bitter  groans- 
Let  blood  flow  like  a  flood  ! 

Ay,  sow  the  seeds  of  lasting  hate 

At  Johnson's,  Hatlin's  graves, 
And  do  their  deeds  and  dare  their  fate, 

Or  live  the  oppres-sors'  slaves ! 
Bleed  freely,  as  you  bled  of  yore, 

In  every  well-fought  field, 
Press  round  the  flag  you  always  bore 

The  foremost — as  a  shield 


I  feel  her  pulse  beat  high  and  quick, 

Her  sinews  stretch  for  strife, 
Full  come  her  heart-throbs  deep  and  thick, 

She  kindles  into  life! 
Though  Donelson  has  told  her  tale, 

And  Shiloh's  page  is  bright, 
There's  yet  a  bloodier  field  to  win, 

For  Nashville  and  the  right! 


's  3Dat[img.  67 


INTO  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay — 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells  and  balls — 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day. 
Somebody's  darling !  so  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  still  on  his  pale,  sweet  face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold, 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow ; 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  the  beautiful,  blue-veined  face 

Brush  every  wandering,  silken  thread  ; 
Cross  his  hands  as  a  sign  of  grace — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  dead ! 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake  ; 

Murmur  a  prayer,  soft  and  low ; 
One  bright  curl  from  the  cluster  take — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know. 


68 


Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there ; 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light  ? 

• 

God  knows  best.     He  was  somebody's  love ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  here  ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand ; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay ; 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand — 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart : 
There  he  lies — with  the  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  smiling,  child-like  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear, 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, 

"  Somebody's  darling  lies  buried  here  !  " 


on  £ach$on.  69 


AY,  toll !  .toll !  toll ! 

Toll  the  funeral  bell! 
So  let  its  mournful  echoes  roll 
From  sphere  to  sphere,  from  pole  to  pole, 
O'er  the  flight  of  the  greatest,  kingliest  soul 

That  ever  in  battle  fell. 

Yes,  weep  !  weep  !  weep ! 

Weep  for  the  hero  fled ! 
For  Death,  the  greatest  of  soldiers,  at  last 
Has  o'er  our  leader  his  black  pall  cast. 
From  earth  his  noble  form  hath  passed 

To  the  home  of  the  mighty  dead. 

Then  toll !  and  weep !  and  mourn ! 

Mourn  the  fall  of  the  brave ! 
For  Jackson,  whose   deeds   made   the    nation 

proud, 

Whose  very  n.ame  was  a  war-song  loud, 
With    the    "  crimson    cross "    for    his    martial 

shroud — 
Now  sleeps  his  long  sleep  in  the  grave. 


on 


His  form  has  passed  away— 

His  voice  is  silent  and  still — 
No  more,  at  the  head  of  "the  old  brigade" — 
The  daring  men  who  were  never  dismayed — 
Will  he  lead  them  to  glory  that  never  can  fade 

STONEWALL,  of  the  Iron  Will ! 

He  fell  as  a  hero  should  fall; 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  war  he  died. 
While  the  rifle  cracked  and  the  cannon  roared, 
And  the  blood  of  the  friend  and  foeman  poured, 
He  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp  the  sword 

That  erst  was  the  nation's  pride. 

Virginia,  his  mother,  is  bowed; 

Her  eyelids   heavy  and  low. 
From  all  the  South  comes  the  wailing  moan, 
And  mountain  and  valley  reecho  the  groan, 
For  the  gallant  chief  of  her  clans  has  flown — 

The  nation  is  filled  with  woe. 

Rest,  warrior  !  rest ! 

Rest  in  thy  laureled  tomb ! 
Thy  mem'ry  shall  live  to  earth's  latest  years, 
Thy  name  shall  still  raise  the  despot's  fears, 
While  over  thee  falls  a  nation's  tears  ; 

Thy  deeds  shall  not  perish  in  gloom! 


(fJoeijcion,  71 

(foertbn : 

A  POEM  FOR  THEN.  AND  NOW. 

WHO  talks  of  Coercion  ?  who  dares  to  deny 
A  resolute  people  the  right  to  be  free? 

Let  him  blot  out  forever  one  star  from  the  sky, 
Or  curb  with  his  fetter  the  wave  of  the  sea ! 

Who  prates  of  Coercion  ?  can  love  be  restored 
To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell  ? 

Can  peace  on  earth  be  proclaimed  by  the  sword, 
Or  good-will  among  men  be  established  by  shell  ? 

Shame !    shame  ! — that  the  statesman   and   trickster, 
forsooth, 

Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  recourse, 
Beneath  the  fair  day-spring  of  light  and  of  truth, 

Than  the  old  brutum  fulmen  of  tyranny, — force  ! 

From  the  holes  where  Fraud,  Falsehood,  and  Hate 

slink  away  ; 

From   the    crypt    in   which    Error   lies    buried   in 
chains  ; 


?2  (ftoetjcion, 

This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 

And  would   ravage   the   land  which   his   presence 
profanes. 

Could  you  conquer  us,  Men  of  the  North — could  you 
bring 

Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood — 
Can  you   hope   the   pure  lily,  Affection,  will   spring 

From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood? 

Could  you  brand  us  as  villains  and   serfs,  know  ye 
not 

What  fierce,  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar  ? 
How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice,  I  wot ! 

How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  his  Father,  the  Czar! 

But  'twere  well  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 
Is  a  nutrix  leonum^  and  suckles  a  race 

Strong-armed,  lion-hearted,  and  banded  as  one, 
Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  disgrace. 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware 
The  swift  retribution  that  waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion,  RESISTANCE,  shall  leap  from  his  lair, 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 


73 


Once,  Men   of  the   North,   we   were   brothers,    and 

still, 
Though   brothers  no  more,  we   would   gladly   be 

friends ; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accursed,  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But,  if  smitten  with  blindness,  and  mad  with  the  rage 
The  gods  gave  to  all  whom  they  wished  to  des 
troy, 

You  would  act  a  new  Iliad,  to  darken  the  age 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  us  of  Troy — 

If,  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  Wisdom,  Humanity,  Justice  implore, 

You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the  eyes 
Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so  grandly  to  soar — • 

If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 
And  you  purpose  hereafter  to  rule  with  the  rod 

The  men  upon  whom  you  have  already  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the  temples  of  God : 

To  the  breeze  then   your  banner  dishonored  unfold, 
And,  at  once,  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar; 


74 


We   greet   you,  as   greeted   the   Swiss  Charles,  the 

Bold— 
With  a  farewell  to  peace  and  a  welcome  to  war ! 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil,  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspiration  from  turf  and  from  tide  ; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight, 
With  the  smile  of  the  fair,  the   pure  kiss   of  the 
bride  ; 

And  the  bugle   its   echoes   shall    send  through   the 

past, 

In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown  to  waken  the  slain ; 
While   the   sod   of  King's   Mountain  shall   heave  at 

the  blast, 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 


Mai}~(f}ht{i$tian'$  ^hanhagiving,  75 


Ifer-Cfmstimt's 


RESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED    TO   THE    WAR-CLERGY    OP   THE    UNITED 
STATES,  BISHOPS,  PRIESTS,  AND    DEACONS. 


Cursed  be  he  that  doeth  the  work  of  the  Lord  negligently,  and  cursed  be  he  that 
keepeth  back  his  sword  from  blood. — Jeremiah  48  :  10. 


O  GOD  of  Battles!  once 'again, 
With  banner,  trump,  and  drum, 

And  garments  in  Thy  wine-press  dyed, 
To  give  Thee  thanks,  we  come ! 

No  goats  or  bullocks,  garlanded, 

Unto  thine  altars  go— 
With  brothers'  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 

Our  glad  libations  flow. 

From  pest-house  and  from  dungeon  foul 
Where,  maimed  and  torn,  they  die ; 

From  gory  trench  and  charnel-house, 
Where,  heap  on  heap,  they  lie : 

In  every  groan  that  yields  a  soul, 
Each  shriek  a  heart  that  rends — 


f|>h 


With  every  breath  of  tainted  air — 
Our  homage,  Lord,  ascends. 

We  thank  thee  for  the  sabre's  gash, 

The  cannon's  havoc  wild; 
We  bless  Thee  for  the  widow's  tears, 

The  want  that  starves  her  child. 

We  give  Thee  praise,  that  Thou  hast  lit 
The  torch  and  fanned  the  flame; 

That  lust  and  rapine  hunt  their  prey, 
Kind  Father !  in  Thy  name ; 

That,  for  the  songs  of  idle  joy 

False  angels  sang  of  yore, 
Thou  sendest  War  on  Earth,  111  Will 

To  Men,  for  evermore. 

We  know  that  wisdom,  truth,  and  right 

To  us  and  ours  are  given — 
That  thou  hast  clothed  us  with  the  wrath 

To  do  the  work  of  Heaven. 

We  know  that  plains  and  cities  waste 
Are  pleasant  in  Thine  eyes; 


77 


Thou  lov'st  a  hearthstone  desolate, 
Thou  lov'st  a  mourner's  cries. 

Let  not  our  weakness  fall  below 

The  measure  of  Thy  will, 
And  while  the  press  hath  wine  to  bleed, 

Oh !    tread  it  with  us  still ! 

Teach  us  to  hate — as  Jesus  taught 
Fond  fools,  of  yore,  to  love — 

Grant  us  Thy  vengeance,  as  our  own, 
Thy  Pity,  hide  above. 

Teach  us  to  turn,  with  reeking  hands, 

The  pages  of  Thy  word, 
And  hail  the  blessed  curses  there, 

On  them  that  sheathe  the  sword. 

Where'er  we  tread,  may  deserts  spring, 

Till  none  are  left  to  slay ; 
And  when  the  last  red  drop  is  shed, 

We'll  kneel  again — and  pray! 


78  Virginians  of  the 

JJirgmxmts  0f  % 

SIG  JURAT. 


THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 

Who,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  — 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

Who  rarely  hated  ease, 
Who  rode  with  Smith  around  the  land 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas! 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginia  hills, 

Amid  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose  ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  many  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth! 

We  thought  they  slept  !  these  sons  who  kept 
The  names  of  noble  sires, 


of  the  Vallevj.  79 


And  slumbered,  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires ! 
But  still  the  Golden  Horse-shoe  knights, 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep! 


80  ?ha  Kallaa  of  the  Bight 


rf  %  gifl(jt. 

IN  other  days  our  fathers'  love  was  loyal,  full,  and 

free, 
For  those  they  left  behind  them,  on  the  Island  of 

the  Sea ; 
They  fought  the  battles  of  King  George  and  toasted 

him  in  song — 
For  then  the  Right  kept  proudly  down  the  tyranny 

of  Wrong. 

But  when  the  King's  weak,  willing  slaves  laid  tax 

upon  the  tea, 
The  western  men  rose  up  and  braved  the  Island  of 

the  Sea; 
And   swore   a   solemn   oath  to   God,   those   men   of 

iron  might — 
That  at  their  hands  the  Wrong  should  die   and  up 

should  go  the  Right! 

The  King  sent  over  hireling  hosts — Briton,  Hessian, 
Scot— 

And  swore  in  turn  those  Western  men,  when  cap 
tured,  should  be  shot; 


Ballad  of  the  BiHt  81 


While  Chatham  spoke  with  earnest  tongue   against 

the  hireling  throng, 
And  mournful  saw  the  Right  go  down,  and  place 

give  to  the  Wrong. 

But  God  was  on  the  righteous   side,   and   Gideon's 

sword  was  out, 
With  clash  of  steel,  and  rattling  drum,  and  freeman's 

thunder-shout  ; 
And  crimson  torrents  drenched  the  land  through  that 

long,  stormy  fight, 
But  in  the  end,  hurrah!  the  Wrong  was   beaten  by 

the  Right  ! 

And  when   again   the   foemen   came   from   out  the 

Northern  Sea, 

To  desolate  our  smiling  land  and  subjugate  the  free, 
Our  fathers   rushed  to  drive  them  back,  with  rifles 

keen  and  long, 
And  swore  a  mighty  oath  the   Right  should  subju 

gate  the  Wrong. 

And  while  the  world  was  looking  on,  the  strife  un 

certain  grew, 
But  soon  al  sft  rose  up  our  stars  amid  a  field  of  blue  ; 


82  he  Ballad  of  tho 


For  Jackson  fought  on  red  Chalmette,  and  won  tLe 

glorious  fight, 
And  then  the  Wrong  went  down,  hurrah !  and  triumph 

crowned  the  Right! 

The  day   has  come  again,  when   all  who  love  the 

beauteous  South, 
Must  speak,  if  needs   be,  for  the   Right,  though  by 

the  cannon's  mouth; 
For  foes  accursed  of  God  and  man,  with  lying  speech 

and  song, 
Would  bind,  imprison,  hang  the   Right,  and  deify 

the  Wrong. 

But  canting  knave  of  pen  and  sword,  or  sanctimo 
nious  fool, 

Shall  never  win  this  Southern  land,  to  cripple,  bind, 
and  rule; 

We'll  muster  on  each  bloody  plain,  thick  as  the  stars 
of  night, 

And,  through  the  help  of  God,  the  Wrong  shall 
perish  by  the  Right. 


83 


IfolKtoffer* 

FIKST  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story; 

For  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart, 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished, 

Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished! 

In  Heaven  a  home  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And  for  his  soul's  sustaining 
The  apocalyptic  eyes  of  Christ — 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining, 

But  a  handful  of  dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice, 

A  name  in  song  and  story — 
And  fame  to  shout  with  immortal  voice: 

DEAD  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY! 


84  &  m<H     with  the  Slest. 


faitfr  %  West. 


ONCE  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the  "West  ! 
And  a  leader  we  give,  of  our  bravest  and  best, 

Of  his  State  and  his  army  the  pride  ; 
Hope  shines  like  the  plume  of  Navarre  on  his  crest, 

And  gleams  in  the  glaive  at  his  side. 

For  his  courage  is  keen  and  his  honor  is  bright 
As  the  trusty  Toledo  he  wears  to  the  fight, 

Newly  wrought  in  the  forges  of  Spain,  (viiL) 
And  this  weapon,  like  all  he  has  brandished  for  Right, 

"Will  never  be  dimmed  by  a  stain. 

He  leaves  the  loved  soil  of  Virginia  behind, 
Where  the  dust  of  his  fathers  is  fitly  enshrined, 

Where  lie  the  fresh  fields  of  his  fame  ; 
Where  the  murmurous  pines,  (ix<)  as  they  sway  in  the 
wind, 

Seem  ever  to  whisper  his  name. 

The  Johnstons  have  always  borne  wings  on  their  spurs, 
And  their  motto  a  noble  distinction  confers, 

"Ever  Ready"  —  for  friend  or  for  foe  — 


with  the  Meet.  85 


With  a  patriot's  fervor  the  sentiment  stirs 
The  large,  manly  heart  of  our  JOE. 

We  recall  that  a  former  bold  chief  of  the  clan 
Fell,  bravely  defending  the  West,  in  the  van, 

On  Shiloh's  illustrious  day; 
And  with  reason  we  reckon  our  Johnston  the  man 

The  dark,  bloody  debt  to  repay.  * 

There  is  much  to  be  done :  if  not  glory  to   seek, 
There's  a  just  and  a  terrible  vengeance  to  wreak 

For  crimes  of  a  terrible  dye, 
While  the  plaint  of  the  helpless,  the  wail  of  the  weak 

In  a  chorus  rise  up  to  the  sky. 

For  the  Wolf  of  the  North,  we   once  drove  to  his 

den, 
That  quailed  in   affright  'neath  the   stern  glance  of 

men, 

With  his  pack  has  returned  to  the  spoil; 
Then  come  from  the  hamlet,  the  mountain,  the  glen, 
And  drive  him  again  from  the  soil ! 

Brave-born  TENNESSEANS,  so  loyal,  so  true, 
Who  have  hunted  the  beast  in  your  highlands,  of  yout 
Our  leader  has  never  a  doubt ; 


86  X  mov     with  the 


You  will  troop  by  the  thousand  the  chase  to  renew 
The  day  when  his  bugles  ring  out. 

But  ye  "HUNTERS"  so   famed  "OF  KENTUCKY"  of 

yore, 
Where,  where  are  the  rifles  that  kept  from  your  door 

The  wolf  and  the  robber  as  well  ? 
Of  a  truth,  you  have  never  been  laggard  before 

To  deal  with  a  savage  so  fell. 

Has  the  love  you  once  bore  to  your  country  grown 

cold? 
Has  the  fire  on  the  altar  died  out  ?    Do  you  hold 

Your  lives  than   your  freedom  more  dear  ? 
Can  you  shamefully  barter  your  birthright  for  gold, 

Or  basely  take  counsel  of  fear  ? 

We  will  not  believe  it — KENTUCKY,  the  land 
Of  a  CLAY,  will  not  tamely  submit  to  the  brand 

That  disgraces  the  dastard,  the  slave; 
The  hour  of  redemption  draws  nigh — is  at  hand — 

Her  own  sons  her  own  honor  shall  save! 

Mighty  men  of  MISSOURI,  come  forth  to  the  call, 
With  the  rush  of  your  rivers  when  tempests  appall, 
And  the  torrents  their  sources  unseal ; 


with  the  Meat.  87 


And  this  be  the  watchword  of  one  and  of  all  — 
"Itemember  the  butcher,  MclSTiEL  !  " 

Then  once  more  to  the  breach  for  the  land  of  the 

West  ! 
Strike  home  for  your  hearts  —  for  the  lips  you  love 

best  — 

Follow  on  where  your  Leader  you  see  ! 
One  flash  of  his  sword  when  the  foe  is  hard  pressed, 
And  the  Land  of  the  West  shall  be  free  ! 


88  ¥ou  can  "®$vet   MM  them 


in  %m  §ark< 


You  can  never  win  them  back  — 
Never  !  never  ! 

Though  they  perish  on  the  track 
Of  your  endeavor  : 

Though  their  corses  strew  the  earth, 

That  smiled  to  give  them  birth; 

And  blood  pollutes  each  hearth  — 
Ay,  forever! 

They  have  risen  to  a  man, 

Stern  and  fearless  ; 

Of  your  boasting  and  your  ban 
They  are  careless  ; 

Every  hand  has  grasped  its  knife, 

Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife, 

Every  palm  contains  a  life 

High  and  peerless  ! 

You  have  no  such  blood  as  theirs 
For  the  shedding! 

In  the  veins  of  cavaliers 

Was  its  heading: 


can  $$v$tt  Wn  them  Bach,  89 


You  have  no  *uch  noble  men 
In  your  "abolition  den," 
To  march  through  foe  and  fen — 
Nothing  dreading! 

They  may  fall  before  the  fire 

Of  your  legions, 
Paid  with  gold  for  murderous  hire — 

Bought  allegiance ! 
But  for  every  drop   you  shed 
They  will  make  a  mound  of  dead, 
That  the  vultures  may  be  fed 
In  our  regions ! 

But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

Is  not  given. 
While  the  Judge  of  right  and  wrong 

Sits  in  heaven — 
While  the  God  of  David  still 
Guides  the  pebble,  with  His  will — 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill — 

Wrongs  unshriven ! 


90 


YEA!  though  the  need  is  bitter, 

Take  down  those  sacred  bells ! 
Whose  music  speaks  of  our  hallowed  joys 

And  passionate  farewells  ! 

But  ere  ye  fall  dismantled, 

King  out,  deep  Bells  !  once  more : 

And  pour  on  the  waves  of  the  passing  wind 
The  symphonies  of  yore  : 

Let  the  latest  born  be  welcomed 

By  pealings  glad  and  long  ; 
Let  the  latest  dead  in  the  churchyard  bed, 

Be  laid  with  solemn  song ; 

And  the  bells  above  them  throbbing, 
Should  sound  in  mournful  tone, 

As  if  in  the  grief  for  a  human  death, 
They  prophesied  their  own. 

Who  says  'tis  a  desecration 

To  strip  the  Temple  Towers, 
And  invest  the  metal  of  peaceful  notes 

With  death-compelling  powers? 


91 


A  truce  to  cant  and  folly  ! 

With  Faith  itself  at  stake, 
Shall  we  heed  the  cry  of  the  shallow  fool, 

Or  pause  for  the  Bigot's  sake  ? 

Then,  crush  the  struggling  sorrow  ! 

Feed  high  your  furnace  fires, 
That  shall  mould  into  deep-mouthed  guns  of 
bronze, 

The  Bells  from  a  hundred  spires. 

Methinks  no  common  vengeance  — 

No  transient  war  eclipse  — 
Will  follow  the  awful  thunder  burst 

From  their  "adamantine  lips." 

A  cause  like  ours  is  holy, 

And  useth  holy  things  ; 
And  over  the  storm  of  a  righteous  strife, 

May  shine  the  Angel's  wings. 

Where'er  our  duty  leads  us, 

The  Grace  of  God  is  there, 
And  the  lurid  shrine  of  War  may  hold 

The  Eucharist  of  prayer. 


92  fffte  (ftewso 


EVA  sits  on  the  ottoman  there, 
Sits  by  a  Psyche  carved  in  stone, 

With  just  such  a  face  and  just  such  an  air 
As  Esther  upon  her  throne. 

She's  sifting  lint  for  the  brave  who  bled, 
And  I  watch  her  fingers  float  and  flow 

Over  the  linen,  as  thread  by  thread, 
It  flakes  to  her  lap  like  snow. 

A  bracelet  clinks  on  her  delicate  wrist, 
Wrought  as  Cellini's  were  at  Rome, 

Out  of  the  tears  of  the  amethyst 
And  the  wan  Yesuvian  foam. 

And  full  on  the  bauble-crest  alway — 
A  cameo  image  keen  and  fine — 

Glares  thy  impetuous  knife,  Corday, 
And  the  lava  locks  are  thine  ! 

I  thought  of  the  war-wolves  on  our  trail — 
Their   gaunt   fangs   sluiced  with   gouts    of 
blood — 


(ftemea  Bracelet.  93 


Till  the  past,  in  a  dead,  mesmeric  veil, 
Drooped  with  its  wizard  flood; 

Till  the  surly  blaze  through  the  iron  bars 
Shot  to  the  hearth  with  a  pang  and  cry, 

While  a  lank  howl  plunged  from  the  Champs  de  Maivj 
To  the  Column  of  July ; 

Till  Corday  sprang  from  the  gem,  I  swear  ! 

And  the  dove-eyed  damsel  I  knew  had  flown ; 
For  Eva  was  not  on  the  ottoman  there, 

By  Psyche  carved  in  stone : 

She  grew  like  a  Pythoness  flushed  with  fate, 

With  the  incantation  in  her  gaze ; 
A  lip  of  scorn,  an  arm  of  hate, 

And  a  dirge  of  the  Marseillaise. 

Eva,  the  vision  was  not  wild, 

When  wreaked  on  the  tyrants  of  the  land — 
For  you  were  transfigured  to  Nemesis^  child, 

With  the  dagger  in  your  hand! 


94  JRelt  the  Bells, 


Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Still  the  tinkling  on  the  plain, 
And  transmute  the  evening  chimes 
Into  war's  resounding  rhymes, 
That  the  invaders  may  be  slain 
By  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
That  for  years  have  called  to  prayer, 
And  instead,  the  cannon's  roar 
Shall  resound  the  valleys  o'er, 
That  the  foe  may  catch  despair 
From  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Though  it  cost  a  tear  to  part 
With  the  music  they  have  made, 
Where  the  ones  we  loved  are  laid, 
With  pale  cheek  and  silent  heart, 
'Neath  the  bells. 


the  R*ll$.  95 


Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Into  cannon  vast  and  grim, 
And  the  foe  shall  feel  the  ire 
From  its  heaving  lung  of  fire, 
And  we'll  put  our  trust  in  Him 
And  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  when  the  foe  is  driven  back, 
And  the  lightning  cloud  of  war 
Shall  roll  thunderless  and  far, 
We  will  melt  the  cannon  back 
Into  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  they'll  peal  a  sweeter  chime, 
And  remind  of  all  the  brave 
Who  have  sunk  to  glory's  grave, 
And  will  sleep  through  coming  time 
'Neath  the  bells. 


96  (ftennon 


AHA  !  a  song  for  the  trumpet's  tongue ! 

For  the  bugle  to  sing  before  us, 
When  our  gleaming  guns,  like  clarions, 

Shall  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 
Where  the  rifles  ring,  where  the  bullets  sing, 

Where  the  black  bombs  whistle  o'er  us, 
With  rolling  wheel  and  rattling  peal 
They'll  thunder  in  battle  chorus  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle ! 

Their  brassy  throats  shall  learn  the  notes 

That  make  old  tyrants  quiver, 
Till  the  war  is  done,  or  each  TYKKEKL  gun, 

Grows  cold  with  our  hearts  forever  ! 
Where  the  laurel  waves  o'er  our  brothers'  graves, 

Who  have  gone  to  their  rest  before  us, 
Here's  a  requiem  shall  sound  for  them 

And  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 


(f&nnon  $ong,  97 


With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 
With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 

Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their-  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle  ! 

By  the  light  that  lies  in  our  Southern  skies  ; 

By  the  spirits  that  watch  above  us  ; 
By  the  gentle  hands  in  our  summer  lands, 

And  the  gentle  hearts  that  love  us  ! 
Our  fathers'  faith  let  us  keep  till  death  — 

Their  fame  in  its  cloudless  splendor  — 
As  men  who  stand  for  their  mother  land, 
And  die  —  but  never  surrender  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle  ! 


98  Battle  Bve. 


I  SEE  the  broad,  red,  setting  sun 

Sink  slowly  down  the  sky ; 
I  see — amid  the  cloud-built  tents — 

His  blood-red  standard  fly ; 
And  meek  meanwhile,  the  pallid  moon 

Looks  from  her  place  on  high. 

O  setting  sun,  awhile  delay ! 

Linger  on  sea  and  shore; 
For  thousand  eyes  now  gaze  on  thee, 

That  shall  not  see  thee  more; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  proudly  now, 

Whose  race  like  thine  is  o'er ! 

O  ghastly  moon!  thy  pallid  ray 

On  paler  brows  shall  lie  ! 
On  many  a  torn  and  bleeding  heart, 

On  many  a  glazing  eye; 
And  breaking  hearts  shall  live  to  mourn, 

For  whom  'twere  bliss  to  die ! 


99 


THE  swallow  leaves  the  ancient  eaves, 

As  in  the  days  agone ; 
The  wheat  en  fields*  are  all  ablaze 
And  in  and  out  the  west  wind  plays, 
Amid  the  tasseled  corn. 

The  sun's  rays  light  as  warm  and  bright 

On  clover  fields  all  red; 
The  wild  bird  wakes  his  simple  song 
As  joyfully,  the  whole  day  long, 
As  if  he  were  not  dead ! 

The  summer  skies,  with  softest  sighs, 

Their  rain  and  sunshine  send  ; 
And,  standing  in  the  farmhouse  door, 
I  see — dotting  the  landscape  o'er — 
The  flocks  he  used  to  tend. 

The  woodbine  grows — the  jasmine  blows — 

Beside  the  window-sill: 
Their  soft  sweet  sigh  is  in  the  air, 
For  the  dead  hands  that  placed  them  there 
On  the  red  field  are  still. 


100 


Around  the  wolds  the  summer  folds 

Her  wealth  of  golden  light  ; 
And,  past  the  willows'  silvery  gleam, 
I  catch  the  glimmering  of  the  stream 
And  lilies,  cool  and  white. 

But  oh!  one  shade  has  solemn  made 

The  sunshine  and  the  bloom; 
Sis  voice,  whose  sweet  and  gentle  words 
Were  sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds, 
Is  silent  in  the  tomb. 

How  can  the  day,  so  bright  and  gay, 

Glare  round  the  farmhouse  door  ? 
When  all  the  quiet  ways  he  trod 
By  leafy  wood,  or  blooming  sod, 

Shall  know  him  nevermore  ! 


o  £a$t  of  Bath.  101 


t  fast  0f 

^   PRISON  SCENE.    («.) 


LAST  night  a  comrade  sent  in  haste 

For  me  to  soothe  his  fearful  pain  ; 
He  felt  Death's  power  advancing  fast, 

He  knew  that  hope  was  vain. 
God's  promises  I  read  again 

Till  Faith's  sweet  light  shone  from  his  eye  ; 
Sole  gleam  —  for  sorrow  filled  me  then, 

As  shadows  fill  the  sky. 

A  dreary  place  —  that  Hospital  — 

Where  dim  lamps  break  the  solemn  gloom, 
And  nurses  move  with  slow  footfall, 

Like  spectres,  through  the  room. 
Above  those  cots  all  miseries  blend, 

On  each  some  form  in  suffering  lies; 
Some  groan  —  some  sleep  —  but  here  one  friend 

Puts  on  the  angel's  guise. 

Scarcely  I  heard  the  bugle's  call, 

Scarce  felt  the  night-wind's  heavy  breath, 


102  (ghe  £a$t  of 


I  only  saw  the  shadows  fall 

And  the  ghastly  chill  of  death, 
Save  where  a  pallid  splendor  lay 
Upon  his  brow  —  like  Martyr's  crown  — 
The  sweet  foreshadowing  of  the  Day 
In  which  Life's  star  goes  down. 

I  hear  his  piteous  tones  implore 

And  heed  his  hand's  hot  clinging  grasp  — 
Pale  hands,  alas  —  that  nevermore 

Shall  feel  Love's  answering  clasp. 
His  frenzied  spirit  flies  from  pain, 

He  thinks  himself  once  more  at  home  : 
"Dear  wife  —  dear  child  —  I'm  here  again, 

Close  to  me  —  closer  come. 

"I  could  not  lag  where  country  led  — 

The  voice  of  wrong  could  not  beguile  ; 
You  would  not  have  me  stay,  you  said, 

If  honor  ceased  to  smile. 
Ah  !  many  fall  in  this  wild  strife  ! 

But  Freedom  holds  their  memories  dear, 
And  makes  a  gem  of  every  life  — 

For  the  crown  she  yet  shall  wear. 


to  &a$t  of  Bqth.  103 


"And  a  many  time  when  raged  the  fight 

I've  seemed  to  see  Tier  through  the  smoke, 
With  smiles  that  shone  in  tearful  light, 

Bless  every  valiant  stroke. 
I'm  hurt  and  tired  now — so  place 

Our  little  darling  by  my  bed; 
One  hand,  my  own,  to  your  embrace, 

And  one  on  Baby's  head." 

His  voice  was  hushed — short  grew  his  breath, 

The  glazing  eyes  closed  slowly  o'er, 
The  bloodless  lips  were  kissed  by  Death — 

They'll  speak  of  love  no  more. 
One  clammy  hand  I  held  in  mine 

And  o'er  it  breathed  my  fervent  prayer — 
Beneath  the  other  seemed  to  shine 

His  Baby's  golden  hair. 


104  £phe  ^otheifs 


P0%r's  fast 

FAK  away  are  our  beloved, 
Where  resounds  the  battle-cry; 

Where,  like  hail,  the  fiery  meteors 
Carry  death,  as  on  they  fly. 

Far  from  home's  dear  shelter  speeding — 
They  its  joy  were  wont  to  be — 

God  of  Battles,  safely  guide  them ! 
"We  will  trust  our  boys  to  Thee!" 

Few  the  years  that  each  had  numbered, 
When  they  heard  their  country's  call — 

When  they  left  the  sheltering  fireside — 
Home  and  kindred — left  them  all. 

Vacant  is  each  place,  and  lonely — 
Must  it  always  vacant  be? 

Thou — -who  seest  a  sparrow  falling, 
"We  will  trust  our  boys  to  Thee!" 

May  they,  in  the  hour  of  danger, 
Say  the  prayer  a  mother  taught  ; 

May  the  lessons  of  their  childhood 
With  rich  blessings  now  be  fraught; 


105 


May  they  never  turn,  or  falter, 

From  the  path  that  leads  to  Thee  — 

Very  precious  !  in  Thy  keeping, 
Father  ',  let  our  children  be! 

When  the  strife  shall  all  be  ended, 

When  the  battle  shall  be  won, 
May  we  fondly,  proudly  greet  them, 

Saying  —  "  Well  and  bravely  done  !  " 
But,  if  Thou  shouldst  early  call  them, 

Suddenly  to  breast  the  tide  — 
Call  them  from  the  midst  of  battle, 

Sheltered  safe  at  Thy  dear  side  — 
May  they  at  their  post  be  watching, 

Ready  for  the  Captain's  word, 
And,  their  earthly  weapon  grounding, 

Be  forever  with  the  Lord! 
Father,  our  weak  hearts  are  failing: 

As  Thou  wilt,  so  let  it  be! 
'Midst  the  battle  shouldst  Thou  call  them, 
"  We  will  trust  our  boys  to  Thee  !  " 

And  when  life's  last  hour  shall  find  us 

Drifting  out  upon  the  tide, 
We  will  breast  the  chilling  waters, 

Knowing  Thou  art  close  beside. 


106 


When  we  gain  the  shining  shore-side 
And  the  glist'ning  portals  see, 

May  they  be  the  first  to  greet  us  — 
Those  dear  boys  we  trust  to  Thee! 


(ponetjal  Invitation.  107 


g,  (fowml  <f  nfaiteibtr* 

COME!  leave  the  noisy  LONGSTREET, 

Fly  to  the  FIELDS  with  me; 
Trip  o'er  the  HETH,  with  flying  feet, 

And  skip  along  the  LEE  ! 
There  EWELL  find  the  flowers  that  be 

Along  the  STONEWALL  still; 
And  pluck  the  buds  of  flowering  pea 

That  grow  on  A.  P.  HILL. 
Across  the  RHODES,  the  FORREST  boughs 

A  gloomy  AECHWAT  form, 
Where  sadly  pipes  that  EARLY  bird 

That  never  caught  the  worm! 
Come !  hasten,  for  the  BEE  is  gone, 

And  WHEAT  lies  on  the  plains, 
And  braid  a  OAKLAND,  ere  the  leaves 

Fall  in  the  blasting  BAINS  !  (xIL) 


108  ^he  Bqave  at 


THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash, 

And  smiling,  all  her  pain  dissembles — 
The  while,  beneath  her  drooping  lash, 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles — 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  a£  dear 

As  ever  dewed  the  field  of  glory ! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  and  wonder; 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder — 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  war  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief, 

While  to  her  heart  her  son  she  presses, 

Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 
Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses — 


at  $om$«  109 


With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 

Sheds  holy  blood,  as  e'er  the  sod 
Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor  ! 


110 


THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Hark  to  wand'ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  !' 
My  mother  State!  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

31aryland!    My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 


111 


Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust ; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  Slumberers  with  the  Just, 
Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland^     My  Maryland! 

Dear  mother,  burst  the  Tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

SHE  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
"  Sic  Semper  " — 'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Come!  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come!  for  £hy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 


112 

t 

Come!  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  ring  thy  dauntless  slogan  song, 
Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek- 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot — the  blade — the  bowl- 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 


113 


She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb: 

Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 

She  breathes  —  she  burns  !  she  '11  come  !  she  '11 

come! 
Maryland!     My  Maryland! 


114  ^het|e'$  &if$  in  the  tf)14  &an4  yet, 


's  fife  in       ®to  f  aitir 


THOUGH  the  soil  of  old  Maryland  echoes  the  tread 

Of  an  insolent  soldiery  now  ; 
And  a  lurid  glare  reddens  the  sky  overhead 

From  the  camp-fire's  light  below  ; 
Though  from  mountain  to  shore   the  hoarse  cannon 
roar  ; 

And  from  border  to  border  are  sentinels  set, 
Whose  bayonets  shine  in  unbroken  line  — 

11  There  is  life  in  the   Old  Land  yet  !  " 


Though  by  treacherous  hearts  and  unloyal  hands 

Betrayed  and  disabled  to-day, 
And  deserted  at  need  by  her  sons,  she  stands 

Confronting  an  armed  array  ; 

Though  tyrannous  might  hath  o'erborne  the  right, 
Hath   despoiled    and   discrowned    her  —  and  men 

forget 

As  they  bow  the  knee,  that  they  once  were  free  — 
"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  !  " 


in  the  t)ld  &and  iei  115 


But  though  patient  and  mute,  she  is  still  undismayed, 

Though  passive,  she  is  not  subdued ; 
Though    she    shrinks    from   unsheathing    her   trusty 

blade 

In  a  fratricidal  feud, 
Not  long  will  she  kneel  when  oppression's  heel 

On  her  neck  is  by  monarch,  or  president  set ; 
And  the  blood  even  now  is  mantling  her  brow — 

For  "there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 

She  remembers  with  pride  what  her  children  have 
done 

In  the  perilous  days  of  yore, 
And  will  never  relinquish  the  rights  which  they  won, 

Nor  disgrace  the  flag  they  bore. 
Then  let  those  beware,  who  boastfully  swear 

They  will  conquer  her  now,  for  their  vaunt  will 

be  met; 
And  the  Maryland  men  shall  be  heard  of  again — 

For  "  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !  " 


11G 


f  hus  after  gtfeat 

WE  have  suffered  defeat,  as  the  bravest  may  suffer ; 

Shall  we  leave  unavenged  our  dead  comrades'  gore  ? 
Oh !  rather,  my  brothers,  rise  up  in  your  manhood, 

And  strive  as  no  nation  e'er  battled  before. 

Come !   rush  from  the  mountains,  the  lowlands,  the 

valleys, 

Rush  on  like  the  avalanche  freed  from  its  spell ; 
And  lash  the  base   cohorts,  that   throng  to   enslave 

us, 

With   stripes  that   shall  give  them  a  foretaste  of 
hell. 

Our  women,  to  hearthstone  and  altar  appealing, 
Say  — "  Shield  us  from   ruin,   or   die   where    you 
stand  !" 

Our  children,  O  God !  can  we  fondle  and  bless  them. 
While  anarchy  threatens,  while  despots  command  ? 

N"o  !  rise  in  the  strength  and  the  glow  of  our  valor, 
And  strike  a  great  blow  that  shall  ring  through 
the  world  — 

A  blow  that  shall  shatter   our  fetters  forever, 
And  leave  our  proud  banner  forever  unfurled  ! 


117 


1  PARLIAMENTARY  DEBATE,  WITH  NOTES  :  BY  A  CONFEDERATE  REPORTER. 

ALL  ye  who  with  credulity  the  whispers  hear  of 
fancy, 

Or  yet  pursue  with  eagerness  Hope's  wild  extrava 
gancy 

Who  dream  that  England  soon  will  drop  her  long 
miscalled  Neutrality, 

And  give  us  with  a  hearty  shake,  the  hand  of 
Nationality, 

Read,  as  we  give,  with  little  fault  of  statement  or 
omission, 

The  next  debate  in  Parliament  on  Southern  Recog 
nition  ; 

They're  all  so  much  alike,  indeed,  that  one  can  write 
it  off,  I  see, 

As  truly  as  the  Times  report,  without  the  gift  of 
prophecy. 


118 


Not  yet,  not  yet  to  interfere  does  England  see 
occasion, 

But  treats  our  good  Commissioner  with  coolness 
and  evasion  ; 

Such  coolness  in  the  premises  that  really  'tis  refri 
gerant 

To  think  that  two  long  years  ago  she  called  us  a 
belligerent. 

But  further  Downing   Street  is  dumb,  the  Premier 

deaf  to  reason, 
As  deaf  as  is  the  Morning  Post,  both  in  and  out  of 

season  ; 
The  working  men  of  Lancashire  are  all  reduced  to 

beggary, 
And  yet  they  will  not  listen  unto  Roebuck,  or  to 

Gregory, 

"  Or  any  other  man,"  to-day,  who  counsels  interfering, 
While  all  who  speak  on  t'other  side  obtain  a  ready 

hearing — 

As  par  exemple  Mr.  Bright,  that  pink  of  all  propriety, 
That  meek  and  mild  disciple  of  the  blessed  Peace 

Society. 


119 


"  Why,  let  'em  fight,"  says  Mr.  Bright,  "  those 
Southerners  I  hate  'em, 

And  hope  the  Black  Republicans  will  soon  exter 
minate  'em; 

If  Freedom  can't  Rebellion  crush,  pray  tell  me  what's 
the  use  of  her?" 

And  so  he  chuckles  o'er  the  fray  as  gleefully  as 
Lucifer. 

Enough  of  him;  an   abler  man  demands   our  close 

attention — 

The  Maximus  Apollo  of  strict  Non-Intervention. 
With  pitiless  severity,  though  decorous  and  calm  his 

tone, 
Thus  speaks  the  "  old  man  eloquent,"  the  puissant 

Earl  of  Palmerston : 

"What  though  the  land  run  red  with  blood;  what 
though  the  lurid  flashes 

Of  cannon -light,  at  dead  of  night,  a  mournful  heap 
of  ashes, 

Where  many  an  ancient  mansion  stood  ?  what  though 
the  robber  pillages 

The  sacred  home,  the  house  of  God,  in  twice  a  hun 
dred  villages? 


120 


"  What  though  a  fiendish,  nameless  wrong  that  makes 
revenge  a  duty 

Is  daily  done  "  (O  Lord,  how  long !)  "  to  tenderness 
and  beauty  ?  " — 

(And  who  shall  tell,  this  deed  of  hell,  how  deadlier 
far  a  curse  it  is 

Than  even  pulling  temples  down  and  burning  uni 
versities  ?) 

"  Let  arts  decay,  let  millions  fall,  for  aye  let  Freedom 

perish, 
With  all  that  in  the  Western  World  men  fain  would 

love  and  cherish; 

Let  Universal  Ruin  there  become  a  sad  reality  : 
We  can  not  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous 

Neutrality." 

O,  Pam !   O,  Pam !   hast   ever  read  what's    writ  in  j 

holy  pages, 
How  blessed  the  Peace-makers   are,  God's  children 

of  the  Ages  ? 
Perhaps  you  think  the   promise  sweet  was   nothing 

but  a  platitude; 
'Tis  clear  that  you  have  no  concern  in  that  divine 

beatitude. 


121 


But  "  hear !  hear  !  hear  !  "  another  peer,  that  mighty 

man  of  muscle, 
Is  on  his  legs,  what  slender  pegs !  "  ye  noble  Earl " 

of  Russell  ; 
Thus  might  he  speak,  did  not  of  speech  his  shrewd 

reserve  the  folly  see, 
And  thus  unfold  the  subtle  plan  of  England's  secret 

policy  : 

"John  Bright  was  right !    Yes,  let  'em  fight,  these 

fools  across  the  water, 
'Tis  no  affair  at  all  of  ours,  their  carnival  of  slaughter ! 
The  Christian  world,  indeed,  may  say  we  ought  not 

to  allow  it,  sirs, 
But  still  'tis  music  in  our  ears,  this  roar  of  Yankee 

howitzers. 

"A  word  or  two  of  sympathy,  that  costs  us  not  a 
penny, 

We  give  the  gallant  Southerners,  the  few  against 
the  many  ; 

We  say  their  noble  fortitude  of  final  triumph  pre 
sages, 

And  praise  in  JBlacTcwoocFs  Magazine  Jeff.  Davis 
and  his  messages — 


122 


"Of  course  we  claim  the  shining  fame  of  glorious 
Stonewall  Jackson, 

Who  typifies  the  English  race,  a  sterling  Anglo- 
Saxon  ; 

To  bravest  song  his  deeds  belong,  to  Clio  and  Mel 
pomene" — 

(And  why  not  for  a  British  stream  demand  the 
Chickahominy  ?) 

"  But  for  the  cause  in  which  he  fell  we  can  not  lift 

a  finger, 

'Tis  idle  on  the  question  any  longer  here  to  linger ; 
'Tis  true  the  South  has  freely  bled,  her  sorrows  are 

Homeric,  oh  ! 
Her  case  is   like  to  his  of  old  who  journeyed  unto 

Jericho — 

"The  thieves  have   stripped  and  bruised,  although 

as  yet  they  have  not  bound  her ; 
We'd  like  to  see  her  slay  'em  all  to  right  and  left 

around  her ; 
We  shouldn't  cry  in  Parliament  if  Lee  should  cross 

the  Raritan, 
But  England  never  yet  was  known  to  play  the  Good 

Samaritan. 


123 


"And  so  we  pass  to  t'other  side,  and  leave  them  to 

their  glory, 
To  give  new  proofs   of  manliness,  new   scenes  for 

song  and  story; 
These  honeyed  words  of  compliment   may  possibly 

bamboozle  'em, 
But  ere  we  intervene,  you  know,  we'll  see  'em  in — 

Jerusalem. 

"Yes,  let  'em  fight,  till  both  are  brought  to  hope 
less  desolation, 

Till  wolves  troop  round  the  cottage  door,  in  one  and 
t'other  nation, 

Till,  worn  and  broken  down,  the  South  shall  prove 
no  more  refractory, 

And  rust  eats  up  the  silent  looms  of  every  Yankee 
factory — 

"Till  bursts  no  more  the  cotton  boll  o'er  fields  of 

Carolina, 
And  fills   with  snowy  flosses   the   dusky  hands   of 

Dinah ; 
Till  War  has  dealt  its  final  blow,  and  Mr.  Seward's 

knavery 
Has  put  an  end  in  all  the  land  to  Freedom  and  to 

Slavery  : 


124 


"The   grim   Bastille,    the   rack,  the   wheel,  without 

remorse  or  pity, 
May  flourish  with  the  guillotine   in   every  Yankee 

city, 
No  matter  should  Old  Abe  revive  the  brazen  bull  of 

Phalaris, 
'Tis  no  concern  at   all  of  ours" — (sensation   in   the 

galleries.) 

"So  shall  our  'merrie  England'  thrive  on  trans- 
Atlantic  troubles, 

While  India  on  her  distant  plains  her  crop  of  cotton 
doubles ; 

And  so  as  long  as  North  or  South  shall  show  the 
least  vitality, 

We  can  not  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous 
Neutrality." 

Your  speech,  my  lord,  might  well  become  a  Saxon 

legislator, 
When  the  "fine  old  English  gentleman"  lived  in  a 

state  of  natur', 
When  vikings  quaffed  from  human  skulls  their  fiery 

draughts  of  honey  mead, 
Long,  long  before  the  barons  bold  met  tyrant  John 

at  Kunnymede — 


TSngland'a  $eutt[alttg.  125 


But  'tis   a   speech  so   plain,   my  lord,  that   all  may 

understand  it, 
And  so  we  quickly  turn   again   to  fight  the  Yankee 

bandit, 
Convinced    that    we    shall    fairly   win    at    last    our 

nationality, 
Without  the  help  of  Britain's  arm — in  spite  of  her 

Neutrality. 


126  ^he  Jfancij  fbot. 


"RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette ; 
Ring  me  a  ball  on  the  glittering  spot, 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet ! " 

"Ah  !  Captain,  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead ; 

There's  music  around,  when  my  barrel's  in  tune." 
Crack!  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"  Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 
From  your  victim    some   trinket   to   handsel   first 
blood ; 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch, 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 


"  O  Captain  !  I  staggered  and  sunk  in  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  fallen  vidette ; 

For  he  looked  so  like  you  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me  and  masters  me  yet. 


Shot.  127 


"  But   I    snatched    off  the    trinket— this    locket    of 

gold- 
Aii  inch  from  the  centre   iny  lead  broke  its  way, 

Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"  Ha  !  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket — 'tis  she  ! 

My  brother's  young  bride — and  the  fallen  dragoon 
Was  her  husband — hush  !  soldier,  'twas  heaven's 
decree ; 

We  must  bury  him  there  by  the  light  of  the  moon ! 

"But  hark!  the  far  bugles  their  warning  unite; 

War  is  a  virtue,  weakness  a  sin. 
There's  lurking  and   loping  around  us  to-night : 

Load  again,  rifleman — keep  your  hand  in ! " 


128 


I  KNOW  the  sun  shines,  and  the  lilacs   are  blowing, 
And  the  summer  sends  kisses  by  beautiful  May. 

Oh !  to  see  the  rich  treasures  the  spring  is  bestow 
ing, 
And  think — my  boy,  WILLIE,  enlisted  to-day! 

It  seems  but  a  day  since,  at  twilight,  low  humming, 
I  rocked  him  to  sleep  with  his  cheek  upon  mine  ; 

While  ROBBY,  the  four  -  year  -  old,  watched   for   the 

coming 
Of  father  adown  the  street's  indistinct  line. 

It  is  many  a  year  since  my  HAKRY  departed 

To  come  back  no  more,  in  the  twilight,  or  dawn ; 

And  ROBBY  grew  weary  of  watching,  and  started 
Alone  on  the  journey  his  father  had  gone. 

It  is  many  a  year;  and  this    afternoon,  sitting 
At  ROBBY' s  old  window,  I  heard  the  band   play, 

And    quickly  ceased    dreaming  over  my  knitting, 
To  recollect — WILLIE  is  twenty  to-day ! 


129 

And  that,  standing  beside  him  this  soft  May-day 
morning, 

The  sun  making  gold  of  his  wreathed  cigar  smoke — 
I  saw  in  his  sweet  eye  and  lip  a  faint  warning, 

And  choked  down  the  tears  when  he  eagerly  spoke. 

v 

''Dear  mother,  you  know  how  these  Northmen  are 

crowing — 
They  would  trample  the  rights  of  the  South  in  the 

dust; 

The  boys  are  all  fire ;  and  they  wish  I  were  going —  " 
He  stopped,  but  his  eyes  said— "Oh !  say  if  I  must !" 

I  smiled   on   the  boy,  though  my  heart  it   seemed 

breaking ; 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears — but  I  turned  them  away ; 
And  I  answered  him — u  WILLIE,  'tis  well  you  are 

waking — 
Go!  act  as  your  father  would  bid  you  to-day!" 

I  sit  in  the  window  and  see  the  flags  flying, 
And  dreamily  list  to  the  roll  of  the  drum ; 

And  smother  the  pain  in  my  heart  that  is  lying, 
And  bid  all  the  fears  in  my  bosom  be  dumb. 


130 


I  shall  sit  in  the  window,  when  summer  is  lyir»g 

Out  over  the  fields,  and  the  honey  bee's  hum 
Lulls  the  rose  at  the  porch  from  her  tremulous  sigh 

ing? 
And  watch  for  the  face  of  my  darling  to  come. 

And,  if  he  should  fall  —  his  young  life  he  has  given 
For  Freedom's  sweet  sake  ;  and  for  me  —  I  will  pray 

Once  more  with  my  HABRY  and  ROBBY,  in  Heaven, 
To  meet  the  dear  boy,  that  enlisted  to-day. 


itfelham.  131 


JUST  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the 
strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer; — 
In  the  glad  April  of  historic  life — 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer! 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 
His  bleeding  country  weeps; 

Hushed — in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death — 
Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Grander  and  nobler  than  the  child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds! 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle's  brunt — 
The  Champion  of  the  Truth — 

He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 
Of  our  immortal  youth ! 


132 


A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginia's  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells : 

The  pennon  droops,  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand, 

Over  the  spotless  shield ! 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 
While,  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 

Couched   in   their   marble  slumber,   flashed   the 

grace 
Of  a  divine  surprise. 

Oh,  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high, 
Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed ! 

Think  of  thy  boy,  with  Princes  of  the  sky, 
Among  the  Southern  dead! 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown- 
He,  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath, 
Twining  the  victor's  crown ! 


of  $tuatt.  133 


©teqiws  0f  Stuart. 

WE  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noontide  air 
Shook  Avith  the  cannonade's  incessant  pealing, 

The  funeral  pageant  fitly  to  prepare — 
A  nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland  wide 
That  skirts  our  southward  border,  in  its  beauty, 

Marked  where  our  heroes  stood  and  fought  and  died 
For  love  and  faith  and  duty. 

And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went  on, 
We  might  not  find  expression  for  our  sorrow ; 

We  could  but  lay  our  dear,  dumb  warrior  down, 
And  gird  us  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  agone,  when  came  a  lull, 
With  victory,  in  the  conflict's  stormy  closes, 

When  the  glad  Spring,  all  flushed  and  beautiful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses — 

AVith  dirge  and  bell  and  minute  gun,  we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites — an  inexpressive  token 

Of  a  great  people's  pain — to  JACKSON'S  shade, 
In  agony  unspoken. 


134  fphe  ?)b$euie$  of 


No  wailing  trumpet  and  no  tolling  bell, 
No  cannon,  save  the  battle's  boom  receding, 

When  STUART  to  the  grave  we  bore  might  tell, 
With  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 

The  crisis  suited  not  with  pomp,  and  she, 

Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecration, 

Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  should  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came,  sweet  flow'rs  to  twine 
Above  his  form  so  still  and  cold  and  painless, 

Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  record  shine, 
Whose  life  and  sword  were  stainless. 

They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 
Into  the  fight,  festooned  from 'summer  bowers; 

How  like  a  fountain's  spray  his  sabre's  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest 
All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal; 

The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre,  on  his  breast, 
That  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 


(gho  ^baequiea  of  $tua$.  135 

]STo  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain — 

But  there  will  come  a  time  when  Freedom's  martyrs 

A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain, 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 

I  claim  no  prophet's  vision,  but  I  see 

Through    coming  years — now   near  at   hand,  now 

distant — 
My  rescued  country,  glorious  and  free, 

And  strong  and  self-existent. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit  land,  which  lies 

Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er  us, 

The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling,  peaceful  chorus. 

And,  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  acclaim 
Of  millions,  undisturbed  by  war's  afflictions, 

Crowning  each  martyr's  never-dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

In  some  fair  future  garden  of  delights, 

Where  flowers  shall  bloom  and  song-birds  sweetly 
warble, 

Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights 
In  living  bronze  and  marble: 


136  fhe  t)b$cwe$  of 


And  none  of  all  that  bright,  heroic  throng, 

Shall  wear  to  far-off  time  a  semblance  grander — 

Shall  still  be  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of  song, 
Than  this  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid, 
That  after  death  he  rode  erect,  sedately, 

Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 
In  presence  yet  more  stately: 

And  thus  our  STUART,  at  this  moment,  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story 

Into  the  region  of  romance  and  dreams, 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory — 

And  sometimes,  when  the  silver  bugles  blow, 
That  ghostly  form,  in  battle  re-appearing, 

Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 
In  victory  careering! 


thet|e  ant)  $ew$  of  the  l^aq?          137 


0f 

"  Is  there  any  news  of  the  war  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Only  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead," 
Was  the  man's  reply,  without  raising  his  eye 
To  the  face  of  the  woman  standing  by. 

"  'Tis  the  very  thing  I  wish,"  she  said — 

"  Read  me  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead." 

He  read  her  the  list;  'twas  a  long  array 
Of  the  wounded  and  slain  on  that  fatal  day. 
In  the  very  midst  was  a  pause,  to  tell 
Of  a  gallant  youth  who  fought  so  well, 
That  his  comrades  asked,  "  Who  is  he,  pray  ? " 
"  The  only  son  of  the  Widow  Gray," 
Was  the  proud  reply  of  his  Captain  nigh. 

"  Well,  well,  read  on.     Is  he  wounded  ? — quick  ! 
O  God!  but  my  heart  is  sorrow -sick !" 
And  the  man   replied — "  Is  he  wounded  ?   Nay, 
He  was  killed  outright  in  that  fatal  fray." 
But  see !  the  woman  has  swooned  away. 


138          $$  thoqe  ant)  "®ew$  of  the 


Slowly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light, 

Faintly  she  murmured,  "  Killed  outright  ! 

Alas,  and  he  was  my  only  son  ; 

But  the  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done !  " 

God  pity  the  cheerless  Widow  Gray, 

And  the  light  of  His  peace  illumine  her  way 


139 


Peace !  Peace !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace ! 

Unto  our  cry  of  anguish  and  despair 

Give  ear  and  pity!     From  the  lonely  homes, 

Where  widowed  beggary  and  orphaned  woe 

Fill  their  poor  urns  with  tears ;  from  trampled  plains, 

Where  the  bright  harvest  Thou  hast  sent  us  rots — 

The  blood  of  them,  who  should  have  garnered  it, 

Calling  to  Thee — from  fields  of  carnage,  Avhere 

The  foul-beaked  vultures,  sated,  flap  their  wings 

O'er  crowded  corpses,  that  but  yesterday 

Bore  hearts  of  brothers,  beating  high  with  love 

And  common  hopes  and  pride;  all  blasted  now — 

Father  of  Mercies !  not  alone  from  these 

Our  prayer  and  wail  are  lifted.     Not  alone 

Upon  the  battle's  seared  and  desolate  track, 

ISTor  with  the  sword  and  flame,  is  it,  O  God ! 

That  Thou  hast  smitten  us.     Around  our  hearths, 

And  in  the  crowded  streets  and  busy  marts, 

Where  echo  whispers  not  the  far-off  strife 

That  slays  our  loved  ones ;  in  the  solemn  halls 

Of  safe  and  quiet  counsel — nay,  beneath 

The  temple-roofs  that  we  have  reared  to  Thee, 


140  M  Hfyaijott  foil 


And  'mid  their  rising  incense,  God  of  Peace ! 

The  curse  of  war  is  on  us.     Greed  and  hate, 

Hungering  for  gold  and  blood:  Ambition,  bred 

Of  passionate  vanity  and  sordid  lusts, 

Mad  with  the  base  desire  of  tyrannous  sway 

Over  men's  souls  and  thoughts,  have  set  their  price 

On  human  hecatombs,  and  sell  and  buy 

Their  sons  and  brothers  for  the  shambles.     Priests, 

With  white,  anointed,  supplicating  hands, 

From  Sabbath  unto  Sabbath  clasped  to  Thee, 

Burn,  in  their  tingling  pulses,  to  fling  down 

Thy  censers  and  Thy  cross  to  clutch  the  throats 

Of  kinsmen  by  whose  cradles  they  were  born, 

Or  grasp  the  brand  of  Herod,  and  go  forth 

Till  Rachel  hath  no  children  left  to  slay. 

The  very  name  of  Jesus,  writ  upon 

Thy  shrines,  beneath  the  spotless,  outstretched  wings 

Of  Thine  Almighty  Dove,  is  wrapt  and  hid 

With  bloody  battle-flags,  and  from  the  spires 

That  rise  above  them,  angry  banners  flout 

The  skies  to  which  they  point,  amid  the  clang 

Of  rolling  war-songs,  tuned  to  mock  Thy  praise. 

All  things  once  prized  and  honored  are  forgot. 
The  Freedom  that  we  worshiped,  next  to  Thee; 


fov[  $eaoe,  141 


The  manhood  that  was  Freedom's  spear  and  shield ; 

The  proud,  true  heart ;  the  brave,  out-spoken  word, 

Which  might  be  stifled,  but  could  never  wear 

The  guise,  whatever  the  profit,  of  a  lie — 

All  these  are  gone,  and  in  their  stead,  have  come 

The  vices  of  the  miser  and  the  slave, 

Scorning  no  shame  that  bringeth  gold  or  power, 

Knowing  no  love,  or  faith,  or  reverence, 

Or  sympathy,  or  tie,  or  aim,  or  hope, 

Save  as  beTgun  in  self,  and  ending  there. 

With  vipers  like  to  these,  O  blessed  God ! 

Scourge  us  no  longer!     Send  us  down,  once  more, 

Some  shining  seraph  in  Thy  glory  clad, 

To  wake  the  midnight  of  our  sorrowing 

With  tidings  of  Good  Will  and  Peace  to  men : 

And  if  the  star  that  through  the  darkness  led 

Earth's  wisdom  then,  guide  not  our  folly  now! 

Oh,  be  the  lightning  Thine  Evangelist, 

With  all  its  fiery,  forked  tongues,  to  speak 

The  unanswerable  message  of  Thy  will. 

Peace !  Peace !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace ! 
Peace  in  our  hearts  and  at  Thine  altars ;  Peace 
On  the  red  waters  and  their  blighted  shores; 
Peace  for  the  leaguered  cities,  and  the  hosts 


142 


That  watch  and  bleed,  around  them  and  within; 
Peace  for  the  homeless  and  the  fatherless; 
Peace  for  the  captive  on  his  weary  way, 
And  the  mad  crowds  who  jeer  his  helplessness. 
For  them  that  suffer,  them  that  do  the  wrong; 
Sinning  and  sinned  against  —  O  God!  for  all  — 
For  a  distracted,  torn,  and  bleeding  land  — 
Speed  the  glad  tidings!  Give  us,  give  us  Peace! 


Banneq.  143 


FURL  that  banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary. 

Furl  it — fold  it:  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it; 
There's   not   one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it! 

Furl  it— fold  it;  let  it  rest! 

Take  that  banner  down  !     JTis  tattered ! 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it — 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it ! 
And  that  those,  who  once  unrolled  it, 

]STow  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh ! 

Furl  that  banner!  Furl  it  sadly! 
Once,  six  millions  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave! 


144  .  fpho  (ftonquetjed  Bannetj. 


Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  entwined  like  theirs  dissever — 
And,  upheld  by  brave  endeavor, 
That  dear  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

Furl  it!     For  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low : 
And  that  banner  prone  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe ! 
For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ; 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it: 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it — 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it — 
And,  oh!  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so ! 

Furl  that  banner !     True,  'tis  gory ; 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  now  prostrate  in  the  dust ! 
For  its  fame,  on  brightest  pages 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages, 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must ! 


(f5ont|uevLe4  Banner.  145 


Furl  that  banner  !  sadly — slowly  ! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy, 

For  it  waves  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfurl  it  never  ! 
Let  it  lie  there,  furled  forever — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead! 


NOTES. 


Note  I.—  "YOUR    MISSION" 

I  AM  not  perfectly  certain  of  the  authorship  of  this  poem. 
It  appeared  anonymously  in  a  Charleston  newspaper,  and  was 
never  claimed  by  its  modest  author.  In  the  South  it  was  va 
riously  attributed  to  Mrs.  Browning,  J.  R.  Thompson,  Mrs. 
Preston,  and  Paul  Hayne.  I  am  sure  that  neither  of  the  three 
last  wrote  it;  and  the  credit  was  given  to  the  first  because  of 
the  combined  strength  and  pathos  of  the  poem,  and  its  ap 
plicability  to  the  war  in  Italy.  I  do  not  think  either  reason 
strong  enough  to  warrant  the  belief;  and  while  I  desire  to 
pluck  no  leaf  from  the  wreath  that  will  to  all  time  adorn  the 
brow  of  THE  GRAND  WOMAN,  I  still  think  some  "mute  inglo 
rious  Milton  "  from  the  South  will  yet  place  himself  in  the 
goodly  company  of  the  poets  by  acknowledging  its  author 
ship. 


Note  II.—  THE   JBT7KIAI,    OF 

is  only  a  metrical  narration  of  facts,  as  they  occurred.  In 
General  Jeb  Stuart's  celebrated  tour  to  the  White  House, 
round  the  rear  of  McClellan's  army  —  known  as  the  PAMUNKEY 


150  $01;$$. 

RAID — Captain  Latane  was  killed  in  a  skirmish.  The  follow 
ing  extract  from  a  private  letter  to  Mr.  Thompson,  from  a  lady 
who  was  present,  tells  the  story  in  better  language  than  any  I 
can  use:  "Lieutenant  Latane  carried  his  brother's  dead  body 
to  Mrs.  Brock enbrough's  plantation,  an  hour  or  two  after  his 
death.  On  this  sad  and  lonely  errand  he  met  a  party  of 
Yankees,  who  followed  him  to  Mrs.  Brockenbrough's  gate, 
and  stopping  there,  told  him  that  as  soon  as  he  had  placed 
his  brother's  body  in  friendly  hands,  he  must  surrender  him 
self  prisoner Mrs.  Brockenbrough  sent  for  an  < 

Episcopal  clergyman  to  perform  the  funeral  ceremonies,  but 
the  enemy  would  not  permit  him  to  pass.  Then,  with  a  few 
other  ladies,  a  fair-haired  little  girl,  her  apron  filled  with  white 
flowers,  and  a  few  faithful  slaves,  who  stood  reverently  near,  a 
pious  Virginia  matron  read  the  solemn  and  beautiful  Burial 
Service  over  the  cold,  still  form  of  one  of  the  noblest  gentle 
men  and  most  intrepid  officers  in  the  Confederate  army.  She 
watched  the  sods  heaped  upon  the  coffin-lid,  then  sinking  on 
her  knees,  in  sight  and  hearing  of  the  foe,  she  committed  his 
soul's  welfare,  and  the  stricken  hearts  he  had  left  behind  him, 
to  the  mercy  of  the  'All-Father.'  " 

Note  III.— THE   ZONE    SENTRY. 

The  anecdote  of  Napoleon  keeping  post  to  reprove  a  sleep 
ing  sentinel  was  changed  by  General  Jackson  to  fit  the 
mould  of  his  grander  soul.  When  his  brigade  came  up  to 
Manassas,  the  men  were  so  worn  down  by  the  toilsome  march 


"Rotes.  151 

that  they  threw  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  without  eating 
even,  slept  as  they  fell.  The  Adjutant,  in  speaking  of  a  picket 
detail,  mentioned  their  condition.  "J\ro/"  said  the  noble 
Jackson,  "  Let  them  sleep,  and  I  will  watch  the  camp  to-nigTit" 

Note  IV.—A   POEM   THAT   NEEDS    NO    DEDICATION. 

The  incident  suggesting  this  poem — the  burning  of  Luna  by 
the  sea-robber,  Hasting — is  to  be  found  in  Milman's  History 
of  Latin  Christianity.  Its  applicability  I  leave  to  the  reader. 

Note  r.— "THERE'S    LIFE   IN   THE    OLD    LAND    YET." 

In  a  recent  letter  Mr.  Randall  informs  me  that  it  was  not 
until  this  poem  had  been  written  several  months  that  he  saw 
Massey's  "  Old  England,"  in  which  a  similar  refrain  occurs. 
Mr.  Howard  has  ably  used  the  same  theme. 

Note  VI.— "THE   WAR    CHRISTIAN'S    THANKSGIVING » 

was  written  on  the  occasion  of  a  governmental  thanksgiving- 
day,  about  the  end  of  '63.  It  was  never  published  except  on 
slips  for  local  distribution ;  and  even  that  was  done  before  the 
author  himself  was  apprised  of  it. 

Note  Til.— A    WORD    WITH   THE   WEST 

was  published  in  Richmond  on  the  occasion  of  General  J.  E. 
Johnston's  leaving  to  take  command  of  the  Western  Depart 
ment  at  the  end  of  1862. 


152 


Note  ttII.—"NEWI,Y    WKOTTGHT   IN    THE    FORGES    OF 
SPAIN." 

A  magnificent  Toledo  blade,  bearing  the  mark  of  the  royal 
manufactory,  had  just  been  brought  from  Spain,  and  presented 
to  General  Johnston  by  a  gentleman  of  Alabama. 


Note  IX.—"  3IUHMUM  O  VS    PINES." 

General  Johnston  was  the  commander  of  the  Virginia  army 
at  the  " Battle  of  Seven  Pines"  and  gained  much  honor  with 
the  people  of  the  State  for  his  conduct  of  the  affair.  He  was 
badly  wounded  on  the  first  day,  when  the  command  devolved 
upon  General  R.  E.  Lee. 

Note  X.—HEAl7JiEGAItJ)'S    APPEAL 

was  for  the  plantation  bells  only  to  melt  into  cannon  ;  but  at 
once  numbers  of  the  churches  offered  theirs.  Some  of  these 
latter  that  were  accepted  and  not  used,  have  recently  been  re 
turned  to  their  owners  by  the  United  States  officers. 

The  sister  poem  to  this,  called  forth  by  the  same  proclama 
tion,  was  never  acknowledged.  It  has  a  ring  and  fire  that 
make  it  somewhat  remarkable  that  this  modest  but  valuable 
contribution  to  the  bell-fund  was  never  placed  at  the  right 
door. 


loies.  153 


Note  XI.- A.  PSISON   SCENE, 

as  well  as  the  touching  poem  by  the  same  author  that  precedes 
it,  was  written  while  Colonel  Hawkins  was  a  prisoner  of  war 
at  Camp  Chase.  After  a  long  and  wearing  imprisonment,  the 
close  of  the  war  liberated  him,  only  to  see  his  "fair,  sunny 
land"  and  die.  But  he  will  not  be  forgotten  as  long  as  his 
people  love  the  poetry  of  true  feeling. 

Note  XII.— "FALL    IN   THE    BLASTING    KAINS." 

General  Rains  had  charge  of  the  torpedo  and  pyrotechnic 
department  of  the  army. 

Note  XIII.— THE   FANCY   SHOT 

has  been  claimed  as  a  Northern  poem.  It  was  first  published, 
in  ONCE  A  WEEK,  as  English  property,  but  manuscript  copies 
had  for  some  time  been  in  circulation  in  the  South. 

It  is  no  strained  image  of  the  horrors  of  the  civil  war  that 
the  poem  presents. 


